Angels in the Garden
by Night Monkey
Summary: An attempt at landscaping turns into something far more lethal when a certain stone angel shows signs of life.
1. The Creeping Angel

What brought about this fic? Probably the fact that the weeping angels are the absolute scariest Christing things I've ever seen on TV. Ever.

This is my first multi-chapter Doctor Who fic, so let's get on with it and see where it goes.

Summary: An attempt at landscaping turns into something far more lethal when a certain stone angel shows signs of life.

* * *

When Molly Mason saw the stone statue her husband had picked up for her garden, she was not pleased with him. In fact, she was so displeased that she intended to cook his least favorite meal, tune the radio to a channel he despised, and become the sole dictator of the telly so he couldn't watch his silly football game. She also intended to take a sledgehammer to the horrendous block of rock as soon as he left for work in the morning.

"I don't see what the problem is. You wanted an angel, I got you an angel," her husband said.

"No, I wanted a happy, smiling angel. Maybe one holding a dove or playing a harp. Not one hiding its eyes and bloody weeping. This angel looks clinically depressed," Molly replied.

"It's not that bad. Besides, I got it on sale."

"So not only is it ugly, it's also cheap! George, you may not care if the neighbors laugh at our garden, but I take pride in it. That monstrosity is not staying."

"It was hard enough for me to take it out of the truck. I can't put it back in by myself."

"Then get someone to help you. That lad from down the street, what's his name, he could help you."

"I'm not asking a twelve-year-old to help me pick up a statue. Just give it a few days. If you still hate it on Friday, I'll drive it back and ask for a refund."

Molly snorted. There was no way the statue would still be in one piece on Friday.

George, his back aching from hefting the statue, went into the house. Molly stayed outside and leered at the angel a little longer. The longer she glared at it, the stronger the urge was to go out to the shed and grab the hammer.

"I hope you enjoy my garden, because first thing tomorrow, you're dust," Molly said. She turned her back on the statue and retired for the night.

Just as she'd planned, Molly cooked fish for supper and George was forced to eat a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich. Then she turned on the kind of music her mother had loved and that made George want to stick a fork in his ears. When George went for the remote, Molly beat him there. Before he could protest or whine, she had turned on an educational program about lions tearing apart baby wildebeest. After the first graphic feeding frenzy, George went to bed.

Hours later, Molly fell asleep with the television still on. It stayed on the rest of the night, broadcasting to nobody. George turned it off when he came downstairs in the morning. He didn't bother waking his wife.

Molly finally woke a few minutes before ten o'clock. She winced at the stiffness in her neck—sleeping on the sofa always gave her aches and pains. Rubbing her neck, Molly got off the couch and went to cook a hearty breakfast. She would need her strength if she was going to be swinging that heavy sledgehammer.

After eating her eggs, bacon, mushrooms and toast, Molly went up to her bedroom to find suitable clothing. She couldn't be seen destroying the statue while she was dressed in her nightgown. The old, stained tee shirt she'd worn while repainting the bathroom would be much more appropriate.

Dressed for success, Molly headed for the shed. The shed was cluttered with an array of old, rusty tools, gardening supplies, and holiday lawn decorations. Luckily, the heavy sledgehammer was too big to get lost, even among the junk.

The grinning executioner approached the helpless statue. She brought the heavy hammer up and rested it on her shoulder. For a second, she considered running back inside and seeing if she couldn't locate safety goggles or even a pair of sunglasses, then dismissed the concern. She could just close her eyes at the moment of impact to keep any dust or stone fragments from getting inside.

Molly was halfway through her swing when something about the angel forced her to stiffen her arms and bring the hammer to a halt. The statue looked a bit different. Which was nonsense. But true.

It had lowered its hands from its eyes. Instead of looking as though it were crying, the angel now looked as though it had just finished counting in a game of hide-and-seek and was about to start hunting.

"No, that can't be right. It must have looked like this yesterday," Molly told herself.

She wasn't convinced. Last night, the angel's eyes had been entirely covered by its hands. That was what Molly had so hated about it; the hiding eyes. But now the eyes were revealed, and they almost seemed to be looking directly at her.

The hammer dropped to the lawn. Despite the warm sunshine, Molly suddenly felt as though she'd been immersed in ice water. Fear, irrational and powerful, seized her. Her palms became damp, her mouth dried and her tongue became thick and unruly, and her heart convulsed.

She bolted for the house, all thoughts of destroying the statue vanished from her mind. Molly slammed the door shut and locked it. While the fear still had full control of her, she rushed through the house, locking all the doors and windows.

By the time she had drawn the currents over the window in her bedroom, Molly had calmed down considerably. Her logical facilities were returning, and she began to feel shame creep in and replace the retreating fear. She had just run away from a stone statue, and there was the distinct possibility one of the neighbors had seen. Molly blushed and moaned.

"I can't believe I was so stupid. It was all just a trick of the light. When George brought the statue home, it was almost sunset. There were shadows. 'Course it looks different now, in proper lighting."

Determined to prove her theory, Molly went back downstairs and to the window that overlooked the garden. She pulled back the curtain and screamed.

The angel had moved _again_. This time there was no room to rationalize the movement as a trick of the light. The angel's face was fully visible, and its hands were resting at its bosom, as though it were praying.

Molly called her husband. She dialed in such a blind panic that she hit the wrong button twice. Once she finally reached her husband's mobile, her hands were shaking so badly she nearly dropped the phone.

"Molly, is something wrong?" George asked.

"Yes, there is something wrong! You need to come home right now!"

"But I've got a client who's—"

"I don't care if he's going to invent a cure for cancer! I _need_ you!"

That convinced George. His wife never needed anything from him, and certainly she never begged so desperately. She was a self-sufficient woman, and whatever was the matter had to be a massive problem.

"Alright, I'll leave. Family emergency and all that. I'll be home in fifteen minutes."

Fifteen minutes sounded as long as a hundred years. Molly whimpered and hung up the phone. She hoped she could last fifteen minutes without running from the house like a madwoman.

Pacing through the house ate up six minutes of her agonizing wait. Standing in front of the window, her hand on the curtain, consumed another three. Finally mustering enough courage to check on the angel, Molly pulled back the curtain for another peek.

The angel had not only moved its arms, it had moved its entire body closer to the house. Molly felt tears spring to her eyes. There were only two possibilities, two ways this was happening: her statue was either alive, or she had lost her mind. Neither option was the least bit pleasant.

Molly left the garden window alone. She would wait by the door for George, so she could seize him the moment he walked in. It would only be another five minutes, maybe less if he was courteous enough to break the speed limit for her.

George must have ignored the speed limit, because he pulled into the driveway not two minutes later. He left his briefcase in the car and hurried to the door. As soon as he opened it, his wife wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her face against his chest.

"Molly, what is it? Oh, don't tell me it's your dad. The doctors said he was doing so much better."

"It's not my dad. Please, just come and see."

"See what?"

"Please."

Not in four years of marriage had Molly ever been so plaintive. George followed her through the house in silence. She stopped in front of a window, reached for the curtain, but then drew her arm back.

"I can't do it again," Molly sobbed.

George couldn't begin to imagine what had his wife reduced to this uncharacteristic state. The same wife who could send him to bed without any supper was now afraid to look out into the garden.

"What's out there, zombies?" George asked, trying to lighten the mood.

"Look. I, oh, I can't."

George grabbed the curtain and refused to hesitate. He pulled it back and gasped in surprise.

"Who the hell's been in the garden? Is that is? Were there some hoodlums out there?" George asked. "You should have called the police, Molly."

"It wasn't kids," Molly replied.

"Then who moved the angel? And…its arms are lowered. What's going on? How can its arms have moved?"

"I noticed this morning, when I went outside. Its hands weren't over its eyes anymore. I thought I was mistaken, but when I looked at it again, it was obvious."

George squinted at the angel. "I'm going out there."

Molly clutched him, and held him immobile. "You are doing no such thing."

"I need to find out why the statue in my garden is moving, Molly."

"No." To George's surprise, he found his wife dragging him away from the window. He was forced to relinquish the curtain, which drifted back into place and obscured the view.

"Then what do you propose we do? We can't ignore something like that," George pointed out.

"Let's call the police."

"And tell them what? That our lawn ornaments are alive? They'd think we'd been into cannabis."

"We could tell them someone was out there. An intruder or a gang of kids, like you said before," Molly replied.

George sighed. "Maybe we _have_ been into cannabis, and don't remember."

"I haven't touched it since I left university," Molly said.

"Then how are we seeing what we're seeing? It's impossible."

George was struck with a sudden idea. His mobile phone had a camera and video recording feature. He could set in on the window sill, leave it to record for a few minutes, then review the footage. If the angel moved in the video, then they would have evidence that something was going on. They could take the video to the proper authorities, though what the police would make of it, George didn't want to guess.

"We'll take a video of it," George said as he pulled out his mobile.

Molly let go of him and allowed him to approach the window. George had to admit the trepidation he felt as his hand grasped the curtain. His hand was shaking, and it took a few deep, steadying breaths before he could draw the curtain.

The angel was closer and its arms were now down at its sides. George hid the sight from his wife. She had turned her back on the window, anyway. He quickly set his phone down on the sill and let the curtain go.

"Let's leave it be for a while."

They sat down at the kitchen table and waited for five minutes; that was the longest video George's camera could record. George got up and, taking tiny, shuffling steps, went to the window. As soon as George was out of the room, Molly grabbed a long knife from the woodblock on the counter, though she knew it would do little against solid stone.

George opened the curtain just a slit. What he saw was enough to nearly trigger a heart attack. The angel was only feet from the window, and had drawn its arms up in an attack position. Its fingernails and face had also transmogrified; it now had claws and its mouth, open wide, bristled with pointed teeth. George grabbed his camera and ran.

"Out of the kitchen. Come on, we're too close here," George said. He grabbed Molly around the arm and yanked her from her chair.

"What did you see? Tell me," she demanded.

"It's close, very, very close. And ugly."

"How close?"

"Arm's length from the window. And it's got claws now."

"Oh my God."

"We'll call the police and they can do whatever they want." George went to dial 999, but paused before his finger could hit the button. The phone's screen was still on the camera mode, and the angel's snarling face stared up at him. It unnerved him so badly he couldn't dial.

"I'll use the home phone," George said. He set his phone down on the coffee table.

George picked the phone up from its cradle. He had dialed the first nine, but as he depressed the button a second time, there came a frantic knocking on the front door. The doorbell began to chime, too.

"What if it's the statue?" Molly asked.

"The way that thing looked, it could just smash the door down."

Molly crept to the door. The knocking became more insistent and desperate. Whoever was out there wanted to come in.

"Who's there?" Molly said.

"I'm the Doctor, now open the door!"

"We didn't call a doctor."

"No, but if you'd had my number, you would've. Believe me, you'll want my help."

"But I don't know who you are."

"Do you have a stone angel that's behaving strangely?"

The door swung open. The Doctor was greeted by a young woman who was clutching a long knife. He grinned at her and waved. She scowled back.

"Is this your doing?" the woman demanded.

"No, not in the least."

"Then how—"

There was the sharp sound of breaking glass. Without waiting for permission, the Doctor shoved past Molly and ran into the house.

* * *

TBC!


	2. The Sneeze that Nearly Killed Everyone

Thanks so much for the reviews! I really, truly appreciate them.

* * *

George was more than a little surprised when a strange man he'd never seen before barged into his house, didn't even offer a greeting or an explanation, and ran towards the sound of the breaking glass that George himself was fleeing. George considered pursuing the man and inquiring just what the bloody hell he was doing, but then reconsidered. He had a wife to watch out for, after all, and getting her out of harm's way was more important than confronting some peculiar intruder.

Molly was waiting for him by the door, as perplexed as her husband. George gave the house he'd been living in for less than three years a final backwards glance, then took his wife's hand. Her palm was slippery with sweat, and he nearly lost his hold on it.

"He said he was a doctor. And he knew about the angel," Molly said.

"Wonderful. This'll turn out to be some government experiment gone wrong, we'll end up in quarantine for weeks, and I'll lose my job, my friends, and my home," George groaned.

"Then let's get out of here before they set up roadblocks. My sister has a flat in Liverpool and she owes me several thousand favors. She'll take us in."

"Your sister is an anarchist."

"She'll protect us if the government comes after us."

"She's been to prison."

"I think she has guns, too."

"Molly, be serious. Are we really going to stay with her?"

"It's her or the angel."

"Alright, her."

The debate settled, George and Molly ran for their car. Behind them, there came the clatter of pots and pans banging against each other.

George had just swung the car into the street when a young redhead threw herself onto the hood. George slammed on the brakes—even though the car was hardly moving—and Molly emitted a high-pitched scream.

The redhead looked up and offered a wave similar to the one the Doctor had given Molly. She then kindly removed herself from the hood.

"Sorry, I had to make sure you wouldn't drive off just yet. The Doctor's in your house, isn't he?"

"Yes, he's in there," George said.

"And he's fighting an angel, isn't he?"

"In all likelihood. _Something's_ destroying my kitchen," Molly replied.

"I'm going to kill him. 'Don't worry, Amy, I won't do anything stupid or dangerous.' Right, Doctor," Amy said, rolling her eyes at the Doctor's lie.

"Can you tell me what's going on?" Molly asked.

"The Doctor's trying to save you from, and I quote, 'the deadliest, most powerful, most malevolent life form evolution has ever produced.'"

"The angel in my garden is really alive?" Molly asked.

"The angel in her garden is deadly?" George said.

"Yes, and very. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to make sure the Doctor's alright," Amy said.

The redhead ran in through the front door as though she hadn't heard her own words of warning. Amy didn't know the house's layout, but it was a relatively small structure and finding the kitchen was easy.

The angel, with its wide-spread wings, had been too broad to fit through the window. It had been forced to take its stone claws to the window sill and had, in seconds, shattered the window panes, cut through the wood and plaster around the window, and sliced Molly's lovely curtains to ribbons. Once the hole was wide enough to admit its body, the angel had propelled itself into the room. It had crossed half the kitchen before the Doctor's continual stare froze it.

It was in this position Amy found the Doctor and the weeping angel. The living statue was standing amongst the debris from the ruined wall; it had turned immobile with its terrifying jaws thrown open and its arms drawn up in front of it. The Doctor was pressed against the far wall, and he was doing his best not to blink. The angel's impromptu demolition work had thrown a great amount of dust into the air, and the Doctor found both not blinking and not sneezing very difficult.

"Doctor? I could be wrong, but this looks both stupid and dangerous," Amy said.

"We'll discuss the subtle art of dangerous and stupid actions later. Right now, I need you to watch the angel," the Doctor said, as though he was doing nothing riskier than asking Amy to supervise his dog for ten minutes.

"Don't you remember what happened the last time I saw one of those things? Does my brain almost becoming an angel ring any bells?" Amy asked.

"Ah, but this time you'll know not to look at its eyes. Now, would you kindly stare at its nose—no, too close to the eyes—its chest? Just for a few seconds."

"But why? You're so good at staring it down."

"Because I'm going to sneeze in the next three seconds, and when I do, I'll close my eyes. I'd rather not have "achoo" as my last words, thanks very much," the Time Lord replied.

"Fine." Amy fixed her eyes on the angel.

The Doctor sneezed, and it sounded oddly loud in the silence of the kitchen. He blinked his eyes a few times, wiped his nose, and then resumed his duty.

"Alright, that little problem's been taken care of."

Letting out a sigh of relief, Amy took her eyes off the angel. "I'm glad for your sinuses. Maybe now you can figure out what to do with that thing before—" The words 'one of us blinks' died on her lips as the Doctor suddenly sneezed again.

"Doctor!" Amy cried.

The Doctor responded by sneezing a third time. He tried to hold back the fourth sneeze and failed.

Knowing it was already too late, that the weeping angel would be towering over her, Amy turned to face the killer statue. It was, to her great surprise and immense relief, standing in the exact same location. Even with the Doctor overcome by his sneezing fit and Amy equally distracted, the angel hadn't attacked. Why?

"This is absolute bollocks! It'll cost me my next salary to fix that hole."

Amy whipped around to see George and Molly standing in the doorway. Molly was still clutching her knife, and George had grabbed a lamp to use as a bludgeon. Both makeshift weapons would have been equally impotent against the angel.

"Whatever you do, don't stop looking at the angel," Amy said.

"Right, sure. We'll stand here like idiots and you can explain why we're doing it," Molly said.

The Doctor finished sneezing, straightened up and inhaled deeply through his nose. "As long as you keep your eyes on the angel, I'll walk through the house on my hands and talk like a Judoon if you want."

"Like a _what_?" Molly asked.

"Judoon. Big, space rhinoceros."

"You're mad."

"So I've been told. I'm not entirely convinced."

"Molly, if you don't mind, I'd like to know why the window's been replaced with a crater," George said. "Let the lunatic talk, please."

Taking no offense over being declared insane by both homeowners, the Doctor explained, "This is a weeping angel, one of the worst things in the entire universe you could ever hope to come across. It looks like a perfectly ordinary statue—and it is."

"It is not!" Molly refuted.

"It is right now. If we were all to turn our backs on it, it wouldn't be anymore."

"What would it be then?"

"Free to kill us in whatever manner it liked."

Molly took her eyes off the angel and used them to glare at the Doctor. He directed her attention back to the angel by poking his finger at the statue.

"The weeping angels have the single best camouflage of any species anywhere. Your chameleons and your cuttlefish don't even register next to the angels. They can _mimic_, but an angel truly _becomes_ a statue the millisecond you look at it."

"So as long as we look at it, it can't move? It's stuck?" George asked.

"Quantum-locked actually, and in that state it's no more dangerous than any other rock. But turn away, blink, and you're dead."

"Then let's smash it! I've got a hammer in the yard, and I say we use it!" Molly suggested.

"By all means, just expect to be at it for a while. Bullets hardly chip them, and sonic technology doesn't faze them, either."

"What are you, the leading expert on these things?" Molly asked.

"No, the leading expert's a madman who's been dead for ages. I read his book," the Doctor said.

Molly had heard about all she could bear. Her kitchen was in shambles, she had a massive hole in her wall, a stone-solid killer angel was responsible for the destruction, and the weird, floppy-haired doctor who had come to save them all was spouting gibberish about quantum-locks and cuttlefish. She could put up with the nonsense and the madness for no longer.

"If I can't break it, I want it gone. Doctor, get it out of my house, now," Molly demanded.

The Doctor said, "That's going to be difficult."

"I don't care."

"The logistics are the problem. Stone being heavy doesn't help either, of course."

"Still haven't made me care, Doctor. Remove it."

"I'll need help."

"George, help him."

George grabbed his lower back. "I'm still aching from getting the damned thing into your garden."

"How convenient. What about you, ginger?" Molly turned to Amy.

Amy and the Doctor both visibly tensed. Molly had taken her eyes off the weeping angel, and George was giving his wife worried and not-so-covert looks. If the woman hadn't been in such a high state of agitation, the Doctor would have kindly reminded her that steady eye contact was the only thing separating them all from involuntary time travel or more direct death. His sharp suspicion that Molly would only leave the room if he told her any of that stopped him from opening his mouth.

"You know, I always wanted to be a ginger," the Doctor said.

"I don't care if you wanted to be the Queen. The only thing I care about, or ever will care about, is getting that sodding angel out of here."

"What about _me_? Don't you care about me?" George whimpered.

"Oh, I suppose so," Molly said dismissively. George wasn't comforted.

"Alright, I can think of a plan. Amy, watch the angel again," the Doctor said.

"What? Why?"

"I need to pace. Pacing helps me think. If I try to pace and look at the angel at the same time, I'll walk into something. Then I'll be in pain. Being in pain doesn't help me think. Or pace, for that matter."

Amy was aghast at the idea of staring down the angel by her lonesome while the Doctor strolled around, coaxing his synapses. George took note of the redhead's horrified expression and decided he, too, would join the optical guard. Looking at the murderous lawn ornament couldn't be any worse than looking at the wife who didn't care about him.

The Doctor began to walk around the kitchen. He didn't have a particularly large area to traverse, as he was sharing the room with three other people, one weeping angel, and a sizable debris field. Still, the track he had seemed suitable for his purposes.

"I've got to get the angel out, but it's too heavy to carry. I can't drag it—that'll destroy the wood floor, and I'll probably be stabbed by the lady of the house. I can't bring it into the TARDIS, far too much time energy in there. TARDIS wouldn't fit in here, anyway."

The Doctor continued to throw out ideas to himself as he walked. He didn't like any of them. They were either too dangerous, the technology required didn't exist in this time period, or the plan culminated in the irate housewife braining him with a rolling pin. He didn't want to be forced to regenerate because of a rolling pin injury. That would be embarrassing.

"Something simple. Something that won't involve the top floor disappearing. Some…thing…ah! Got it!" the Time Lord announced.

"Thank God," Molly muttered.

"The wheel! We'll roll the angel out."

"That's your master plan? Roll it out? On what?" Molly asked.

The Doctor faltered. "Right, on what? You don't own a dolly, cart, or sturdy pair of roller-skates, do you?"

Molly snorted in contempt. The Doctor took that derisive snort to mean the house lacked anything remotely close to what he needed.

George opened his mouth and then closed it. This action was not missed by the Doctor.

"You, you've got an idea. Let's hear it," the Doctor said.

"It's stupid."

"Won't know unless we hear it."

"I was thinking of…of a skateboard. This boy down the street owns at least half a dozen. He does these brilliant tricks with them, so I'd assume they're strong enough, and he's a…Molly, you're about to ask for a divorce, aren't you?"

Molly might have been looking at her husband as though he'd suggested they all strip naked and shag the angel, but the Doctor liked the idea. He liked it a lot, actually. There was the practicality, but there was also the absurd and whimsical side of it. Imagine, a weeping angel being strapped to a skateboard or two and wheeled through a suburban home. It was beautiful.

"If you think you can get a board off him, go. If not, come back here and I'll try," the Doctor said.

"What makes you think he'll give one to you if he won't give it to George? He doesn't even know who you are," Molly said.

"Because I can show him tricks that haven't been invented yet," the Doctor replied. Amy made a mental note to ask where the Doctor had learned to skateboard, and if he'd be willing to give lessons.

"I'll be right back. Two ticks," George said.

With that, he was off. Since the angel guard was reduced to three, Molly decided, if only to save her own skin, that she'd stop casting baleful glares at the Doctor and the ginger and focus them on the statue. The Doctor and Amy were both grateful for this redirection.

George was far too occupied to notice the subtle changes in the living room. Even as he skirted the coffee table, he failed to notice that his cell phone, and the video it contained, had vanished. The tall, gray figure in the corner that twitched—but at the last moment decided to let its prey go—went unseen. As the door slammed shut and George emerged into the warmth of the noon sunshine, he was oblivious to the second angel that he'd inadvertently created.

* * *

TBC


	3. No More Dead Bobs

Happy Thanksgiving, to any US readers. I know what I'm thankful for: I'm thankful for the reviews! Muchas gracias guys!

* * *

An uneasy silence held sway over the kitchen. Nobody talked to Molly so as not to further agitate the already riled woman. Molly didn't talk to the Doctor or Amy because she could hardly stand to look at them, let alone go through all the effort of exhaling and vibrating her vocal cords and shaping her tongue in the correct ways to produce speech. The weeping angel, being made of stone, didn't offer any succinct comments, either.

Luckily, they weren't forced to endure the awkward silence for long. The front door opened and George called out. His voice was filled with a reluctance everyone noticed and nobody liked.

"I'm back and I've got the skateboard. I've also got...bloody hell."

"Oh, bloody hell, that sounds bad. I wouldn't want to have that," the Doctor said.

"He's got me." The voice was unfamiliar to Amy and the Doctor, but Molly recognized it.

"George, are you mad? Take him home now!" she shouted.

A young, skinny, long-haired boy appeared in the kitchen archway. He took a single step into the room before freezing as thoroughly as the angel. The epic destruction left him in total awe. He didn't understand why the Masons had destroyed their kitchen wall and had dragged an ugly-ass stone angel into their house, but it was wicked cool. He wondered how loud his mother would shriek if he tried to do the same thing with his room.

"This is brilliant," the boy said, his voice reverent.

"No it isn't! It's horrible!" Molly shouted.

"Then why did you do it?" the boy asked.

"Are you stupid? We didn't do it. The angel did!"

The boy walked right up to the angel and prodded it. There was no reaction. He nudged it with his shoe and got the same result.

"It couldn't have. It's made of stone, and stones don't move unless you chuck them," the kid said.

"It did move and it did destroy the kitchen. I've got proof—I'm pretty sure at least—on my mobile phone. Go get it and see. It's on the coffee table," George said.

The boy hadn't even taken a step when the Doctor seized his wrist. "Don't move! What's this about mobiles?"

"I took a video of the angel when it was outside. For evidence and such," George explained.

The Doctor's face contorted with horror. One angel between four—now five—pairs of eyes was manageable. Two angels, one free to move around the house as it pleased, with the same five watchers now divided was far from manageable. It was dangerous, very dangerous, possibly even lethal.

"Did I do something wrong?" George asked, taking note of the Doctor's blatant fear.

"Your phone had the image of an angel, you're sure?" the Time Lord said.

"Yes. Why is that so bad?"

"Because whatever holds the image of an angel becomes itself an angel."

"I don't understand."

"Photographs, videos, the optical center of the human brain! Maybe even an extraordinarily well-rendered painting for all I know!"

The look on George's face suggested the Doctor was blithering away in a completely alien language. Though the words were hitting his ears and transferring to his brain in plain English, they refused to form a cohesive thought. George simply could not understand why the mobile phone had the Doctor in such a dither.

The Time Lord realized he wasn't getting through to George, so he stopped ranting and flapping. He took a deep breath, thought of the simplest terms imaginable, and tried again to explain why they were all in terrible danger.

"Weeping angels reproduce like nothing else in the universe. Anything that holds the image of an angel—a video or a photograph—will eventually become an angel. Your mobile contains a video of the angel. Therefore, it's either an angel or will become one soon. We have to destroy the image if we can, and find the angel if we can't."

"So there's two of those angel things now?" the boy asked.

"If not, there will be soon enough," the Doctor replied.

"Can I have it, like as a pet?"

"What? No, you can't have it! It'll kill you, your family, and anyone else it can get its claws on."

"Why?"

"To feed."

"What do they eat?"

"Energy. Potential energy, radiation, that sort of thing."

"How—"

"Please hold all further questions until the end, thank you."

The skateboarder reluctantly closed his mouth. This whole business with statues coming to life and killing people was by far the most incredible thing he'd ever heard, and his twelve-year-old mind burned with a typhoon of swirling questions. Damming the desire to ask them was serious work.

"Here's the plan. You lot stay here and watch this one. I'll poke my head into the living room, and see if the phone's where it ought to be. If it is, I'll delete the video. If it isn't, I'll come back and tell you. If I don't come back, it's safe to assume the angel was clever and caught me off guard."

Leaving them with that cheery thought, the Doctor backed away from the group. He peeked out into the living room and nothing large and stony immediately caught his attention. Once he'd determined an angel wasn't in the room, he looked for the phone.

The coffee table supported a thick book and the remote for the television. There was no mobile phone. That was bad. That was extremely bad.

"The phone's gone and the angel's loose in the house," the Doctor reported.

"Find it," Molly ordered.

"Right. I need the house's layout. What's upstairs?" the Doctor asked.

George said, "Our bedroom, guest bedroom, and the loo. The guest bedroom's at the far end of the hall, the loo's the first door to the left, and our bedroom's to the right."

"Excellent. Now I need a volunteer to come with me."

The Doctor wasn't used to getting enthusiastic replies to his volunteer requests, and he was more than a little put off when the boy's hand shot into the air and began to wave around. The boy obviously didn't understand the gravity of the situation, and the Doctor had no intention of introducing him to the savagery of the weeping angels.

"I'm not sure you're the best candidate for the job. I appreciate your desire to help but you're a bit young, uh…what's your name, anyway?" the Doctor asked.

"Bob, and I don't think I'm too young."

There are moments in every sentient creature's life when it wants to shake its fist, tentacle, or amorphous appendage at the vast, dark, uncaring universe. This was one of the Time Lord's. The irony was just too much. Another Bob, another young, innocent lad, and another weeping angel waiting to off him. This poor Bob didn't even have military training or a gun.

"That settles it then. You're staying right here, where it's marginally safer," the Doctor said.

"But I want to help."

"Do you know what happened to the last Bob I knew? Hmm? I'll tell you. A weeping angel snapped his neck and he died alone and in fear."

There were identical gasps from Molly and George as they were reminded of the murderous capabilities the angel in their kitchen possessed. Bob cringed and his exuberance disappeared. Amy reached a hand out and patted Bob on the back.

"I'll come with you," Amy said. "You haven't got a great track record with Bobs, but you've kept me alive."

"Knock on wood," Molly muttered. George actually reached out and knocked on the wooden cupboard door.

The Doctor sighed. "They need you down here more than I'll need you up there. I'd never forgive myself if I left these three—no offense, you three—alone with the angel. I know what I'd return to find: you lot gone, and the angel well-fed and looking for more."

Molly crossed her arms. "Thank you so very much for the vote of confidence. We've done well enough so far."

"You're not even looking at it now! And neither is your husband! I can trust Amy, and probably Bob, but you two are so thick you'd squabble yourselves right to the grave."

George looked sufficiently chastised—he had the wisdom to avert his eyes from his wife and turn them back on the angel—but Molly was only angered by the Doctor's jab. In case everyone had forgotten, she'd been the one who'd had to put up with the angel the longest. She was the first to see it move, the first to nearly wet her knickers when it came creeping toward her, and it was her kitchen, her holy space of culinary mastery, that the angel had smashed through. And nobody seemed to care!

Molly stomped away from her husband and headed straight for the Doctor. He didn't want a conflict, didn't have time for it, but inevitable conflict was marching his way with all the fierceness of the armies of Genghis Khan. He could either stand and face it, or he could run. Since the only place to run was the uncontested domain of a weeping angel, he supposed running would be slightly more unpleasant than facing the woman's full wrath.

"Doctor, if you're even a real doctor, my day has been nothing but misery. When that angel showed up yesterday, I hated it. Then I discovered it was alive, evil, and looking to kill me. You have been less than useless. I don't know why I let George talk me into coming back. I should have driven off and left you and your ginger friend to fend for yourselves."

The Time Lord winced. That had been hurtful, deep and intrinsically piercing. It had also been selfish and entirely wrong. He had been a good deal more than useless. If not for him practically knocking down the door, Molly would have been exploring an entirely new life in 1925 or 1739 or 1888 or whenever the angel's touch had sent her.

"The weeping angel is not, in any way whatsoever, my fault. Out of the goodness of my hearts, I came to save you from it. I could have gone on about my business, blissfully ignoring you. I didn't. You must have forgotten that part," the Doctor replied.

"About that, how'd you know the angel was here? Maybe you _are_ responsible for it! Maybe you're conspiring with it!"

"That's ridiculous. Weeping angels never form alliances with other species."

"You could be making all of this up; it isn't like any of us could tell you otherwise. You could say these weeping angels have chocolate centers, and we'd be forced to believe you. You've got all the knowledge about these things, and we've got nothing. You could play us all for fools," Molly shouted.

"He isn't lying! Everything he says about the angels is true," Amy said.

"You keep out of this, ginger," Molly snapped.

"My name's not "ginger," it's Amy Pond."

"Ugh, I'd rather be named ginger."

"Don't you insult her name! It's a lovely name," the Doctor said.

"I suppose it's better than Amy Bog or Amy Puddle, but not by much."

World War III might have started over Amy's name if Bob hadn't brought reality crashing back down on everyone. He raised two fingers to his lips, took a deep breath, and whistled loudly and shrilly enough to crack glass and deafen dogs.

"Something's moving upstairs," Bob said.

There was a heavy thud, like an unabridged dictionary falling to the floor. Instinct kept the Doctor from looking up, and that saved them all; he alone stared at the angel while everyone else tilted his or her head up towards the ceiling. The Doctor wondered if that hadn't been the angel's intention all along.

"It's trying to distract you, and it's doing an excellent job," the Time Lord said.

All together, they realized what they'd done. Bob looked the most horrified. Amy was more mortified. She should have known better.

"You all need to focus harder and I need to find the second angel. Stay here, all of you, and whatever you do, don't take your eyes off the angel. Blink as little as possible, don't fight, and don't any of you die before I get back."

"Doctor, I should come with you," Amy protested.

"I need you to keep this lot alive. Can't trust them to do it themselves, so I'm trusting you, my wonderful Amy Pond."

"I want her to stay," George said.

"Me too," Bob added.

Amy surrendered to their desperation. She wished the Doctor luck. Turning away from the angel long enough to hug him posed too much of a risk.

Secure in the knowledge Amy would keep everyone on task, the Doctor left them. He poked his head out into the living room, found it still empty, and proceeded towards the stairs. He climbed them slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible. He suspected the angel knew he was coming, but he didn't want to give himself away.

The first thing the Doctor noted upon arriving on the second floor was that it was dark. There was no light filtering out from any of the rooms, because all their doors had been shut. The end of the hall was so dark that the angel, gray in color, would have been nearly invisible if it was standing there.

The Doctor flipped on a nearby light switch. The gloom fled and he discovered no angel standing at the end of the hall. That would have been too easy.

Loitering wouldn't get him anywhere, so the Doctor began his search. He turned to the door on his right, opened it, and entered George and Molly's bedroom.

* * *

TBC

I know I've been updating like mad, but it may slow a bit over the next two weeks. I'm moving into Finals Week (dreaded!) and I've got three major papers due. If I don't update every other day, please don't despair. I don't intend to quit the story, I'm just beaten down by work.


	4. Full Dark, No Lamp

Thanks for the reviews! This may be the last chapter for a few days (college attacks!) but I'll try not to neglect the fic any more than is absolutely required.

This is just a quick note, but I'm an American. I'm trying my best to use the British terms for things (torch for flashlight and such) but I may fail completely. If I do, feel free to tell me.

* * *

The curtains had been drawn across both windows, and the room, like the hall, was dim. It wasn't, however, dark enough to hide an angel, and the Doctor casually flicked on the light switch. With everything illuminated, he was able to take a thorough look around. Though he knew it was highly unlikely the weeping angel was here, he had to make sure the living statue hadn't stuffed itself into the closet or under the bed.

As he searched the room, the Doctor came to appreciate how nice of a bedroom it was. There were no instruments of torture, the bed was neither on fire nor made of fire, Captain Jack Harkness was not trying to wheedle his way in, and there were no piles of unwashed clothes lying about. The bed was neatly made, the carpet was clean, and the Doctor wondered if Molly—or possibly George, since this was about the decade men started embracing their domestic side—wouldn't share some decorating tips. He had a few rooms on the TARDIS that had been in dire need of new curtains since King Henry VIII was on the throne.

A quick poke in the closet told him that Molly was fond of the color purple and George had surprisingly small feet. Satisfied that the angel wasn't hiding among the hangers and garments, the Doctor slid the closet door shut. He checked under the bed, found a few shoeboxes and dust bunnies, and declared George and Molly's bedroom devoid of weeping angels.

The bathroom, located just down the hall, proved even easier to check than the bedroom. The angel was not standing in the bathtub, hadn't contorted itself under the sink, and was not lurking in the toilet tank. The doctor turned off the light and closed the door as he left.

That left only the guest bedroom to check. Unless the angel had leapt out the window—or gone into the attic, if the house even had an attic—then it was in that room. Waiting. For him.

Mucking about in the hall wouldn't make the angel magically disappear, so the Doctor tamped down his healthy fear and approached the room at the end of the hall. He took a deep, fortifying breath before grasping the doorknob and turning it.

The room was completely dark, as lightless as an ocean abyss. Unless Molly and George had a pet vampire they'd failed to mention, the Doctor had found his quarry's hiding place. The only problem was venturing inside would kill him as surely as falling into the sun would. He didn't even dare reach in and feel around for a light switch. Darkness was the angel's domain, not the Time Lord's, and he knew better than to intrude without a weapon.

The Doctor closed the bedroom door and walked back towards the stairs. His footsteps as he descended alerted everyone on the ground floor that he had survived the excursion, and Amy called out to him.

"Doctor? Did you find the angel?"

"Yes, probably. Did I actually see it with my own eyes? No. But chances are good I found where it's hiding. That could all change, depending on certain things," the Doctor replied.

"What sort of things?" Molly asked.

"How you answer these questions. Do you have a vampire, and do you have an attic?"

"Are you out of your gourd? No! We haven't got vampires or an attic!"

"In that case, I found the angel. It's in your guest bedroom, and it's incredibly dark in there. The angel must have covered the windows. That room usually does have windows, doesn't it?"

Molly's sigh, loud enough to be heard halfway up the stairs, told the Doctor he was asking questions so stupid they didn't warrant answers. He felt he was just examining all possibilities. Some people didn't like windows all that much. It wasn't entirely impossible for the guest bedroom to offer no view whatsoever.

"I need a torch," the Doctor said.

"There's one in here, under the sink. I don't know if the batteries are any good. I haven't used it since January," George said.

The Doctor appeared in the doorway. "Hello! Under the sink, was it?"

Without waiting for George to confirm, the Doctor strolled over to the sink and opened the cabinet door. There, below the exposed plumbing, was the torch. The Doctor picked it up and switched it on. The bulb tried to shine, managed a feeble, dying glow, and then gave up and blinked out.

"There might be spare batteries…never mind, used them on the portable telly," George said.

"Not to worry. Sonic technology can fix this. Or break it beyond all repair. One or the other. Or possibly neither, but probably not." The Doctor pulled out his sonic screwdriver.

Nobody bothered asking for an explanation of how sonic technology could recharge batteries. George assumed one would make his head hurt, Molly assumed one would make her want to slap something, Bob just wanted to see something blow up, and Amy was resigned to the Doctor's inscrutable ways.

"This may get incredibly bright, so normally I'd tell you to cover your eyes. That would kill you, though, so I won't. I'll just say that if it looks like an atomic bomb went off, try your best to squint."

The Doctor fiddled with the screwdriver's setting before pointing it at the dead torch. The screwdriver whirred and, almost instantaneously, the torch flared with unnatural brightness. Satisfied, the Doctor slipped the screwdriver back into his pocket.

"If I can't have an angel, can I have one of those?" Bob asked.

"A sonic screwdriver? No."

"Can I touch it?"

"No."

"Can I see it again?"

"Later. You're on weeping angel duty, Bob."

With his super-powered torch in hand, the Doctor turned away from the group. He headed back upstairs, passed the safe rooms, and stopped outside the guest bedroom. Before he opened the door, he clicked on the torch. It shined like a miniature lighthouse beacon.

The sonic-enhanced torch cut through the darkness. It didn't take the Doctor long to discover why the room was pitch black. The bed had been stripped—completely torn apart might have been more accurate—and the pillows, sheets, duvet, and some of the mattress had been packed into the window frame.

The Doctor stepped into the room and left the door open behind him. As powerful as the torch was, its beam could only light a fraction of the room at any one time. What he really needed was to find the light switch and chase all the darkness from the room. Until he did, he was horribly open and exposed to ambush.

Like in most rooms designed by intelligent human engineers, the switch was located right by the door. Keeping the torch beam pointed out in front of him, the Doctor reached out and flicked the switch up. Nothing happened. He tried it again. An equal amount of nothing occurred.

"Come on, let there be light," the Doctor muttered, flicking the switch with more vigor.

There was no light.

The Time Lord scanned the room for a lamp. He found one. Snapped in half and thrown on the floor.

"Lovely."

He'd have to use the torch. Cursing his luck—and the angel's cleverness—the Doctor began to scan the room from left to right. The intense light revealed a dresser, a bedside nightstand, the wrecked bed, and a small closet. The closet door was open and there was nothing inside except a few bare hangers.

"It's not here. How can it not be here?"

The Doctor scanned the room again. No angel. Nothing but a neglected guest room.

So where was the angel, if it wasn't here?

He had no more than a nanosecond to register the shadow that appeared in the doorway. Before he could even begin to turn his head, the shadow had charged him. The Doctor felt something unforgivably hard strike him in the back with all the force of a charging elephant. Then he was airborne.

He hit the wall hard enough to force all the air from his lungs. Falling to the floor a moment later was hardly more pleasant. The pain from his back registered just as he tried to draw air into his squashed lungs. It felt like he'd received a direct hit from a Dalek's blaster, and that didn't make breathing any easier.

The Time Lord had managed to draw a single pained breath when something else froze the air in his lungs: fear. The door behind him slammed shut. The rectangle of light the open door had provided vanished.

The torch. Where was the bloody torch? Had he lost his grip, had it been broken, had the angel taken it?

Then the Doctor noticed something cylindrical was poking him in the stomach. He rolled over and off of the torch. He grabbed it and felt along its plastic body for the button that would turn it on. Pressing the button did nothing. Shaking the torch, cursing the torch, threatening to chuck the torch into a black hole, and begging the torch to turn on all failed to light it.

Something moved in the total darkness. The Doctor strained his ears, waiting for the sound to repeat itself. The sound of movement came from his left. Seconds later, from his right. Then it was directly in front of him, so close he could have probably reached out and touched the mover.

The angel was playing with him. Instead of knocking him across the room, it could have sent him spiraling through time with its touch. He could have been sitting up, groggy and confused, in the late fourteenth century. But he wasn't. He was sitting, aching and frightened, up against the wall in a young couple's guest bedroom.

"What'd you want from me? Looking to make me into Angel Doctor, is that it? No thanks."

Though it wasn't anywhere near as powerful as the torch, the sonic screwdriver did produce light. The Doctor fished it from his pocket and turned it on. A soft circle of green light surrounded the Doctor. If the angel crept within, oh, half a meter or so, the Doctor supposed he might be able to freeze it.

"If you want to conquer the Earth—and you do seem like the planet-conquering type of angel—you'll have to get in line. It's a very long line, you know. Daleks, Cybermen, Racnoss—well, technically, they're extinct—Sontarans…it goes on forever. Really, you'll be dust by the time you get your chance. What you ought to do is conquer Pluto. Nobody wants Pluto. You could have it all to yourself."

The door didn't suddenly burst open as the angel rushed off to lay claim to Pluto. The Doctor hadn't expected it to, but he'd felt the need to try. He felt bad for Pluto, it not being a planet anymore, and he figured a few psychopathic living statues might make people pay attention to it again.

"Don't want Pluto? Fine. But you're not getting Earth." The Doctor got to his feet, wincing as he did so.

"You're not getting Earth, you're not getting me, and you're not even getting this bedroom for much longer." He inched toward the door.

Half of the broken lamp bounced off his temple. The Doctor stumbled, his hand instinctively going for the injury. As he rubbed the sore spot on the side of his head, the rest of the lamp struck him on the bum. That stung quite a bit worse.

"If that's the best you can do, you're an insult to your species. The last angels I met destroyed an entire civilization, murdered some of the finest fighting clerics I have ever known and nearly killed my companion. You tore up a bed and hit me with a lamp. I suppose I can't expect much from an angel born from a mobile phone, but you might want to try harder."

The resounding crash of the Doctor being slammed into the door he had trying so desperately to reach startled everyone downstairs. Having learned their lesson about distractions, Bob and Amy continued to watch the angel. George and Molly, being miserably students, both looked upward, as though they expected to see the source of the crash scuttle across the ceiling like a spider.

Everyone waited tensely to see if there would be another house-shaking noise. There wasn't, and Molly and George eventually lowered their eyes.

"He's dead," Molly said.

"He is not!" Amy snapped.

"He is. That angel killed him, and it'll be down to do the same to us before long."

"Shut up! He's the Doctor, he can't be dead."

"He's a doctor, not God. Of course he can be dead."

"He's not just _a_ doctor, he's—"

"_The _Doctor. Exactly, Amy. Very well spoken."

Though she knew it was dangerous, Amy spun around to find the Doctor hurrying towards her. He was favoring his right leg, a thin trickle of blood was running down the side of his face, he was clutching his sonic screwdriver so hard his knuckles had turned white and his clothing was in chaos. His duel with the angel had apparently not gone over well.

But he was alive, all his limbs were still attached, and that was all that mattered.

"If I wasn't married, I'd kiss you," Amy said.

"And if you weren't married, I'd return the favor."

Amy gave him a quick hug instead. The embrace ended, and they both turned to look at the well-behaved angel.

"I found the second angel, and it's a spoiled little brat. It's not even half an hour old and already it thinks it's too good for Pluto," the Doctor said.

"What?" Molly asked.

"I know! I'd be happy with Pluto! But no. It wants the Earth. And an army of angels to help it."

George sputtered. "An ar-army!"

"Yep, an army. I've seen it before, and it's not pretty."

"Then we've got to stop it! Doctor, what are we going to do?" Amy asked.

"I don't know. It's got a stronghold up there. Dark, full of objects it can chuck. I'll figure something out. Eventually."

Eventually sounded like a very, very, very long time.

* * *

TBC


	5. Brilliant

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

"Eventually" looked like it was going to become an eternity. The Doctor was having immense trouble concocting a plan, and all the pacing, muttering, and facial scrunching was getting him nowhere. His brilliant Time Lord mind was failing him, and he was most displeased.

The angel upstairs wasn't making his job any easier. It was making as much noise as a drunken quartet of rock stars. It was also, judging by the crashes, house-shaking thuds, and cracks of splintering wood, doing as much damage as the Rolling Stones set loose in an unsuspecting hotel room.

"Doctor, could you think a bit faster please? Some of the things that monster is breaking belonged to my mother," Molly said.

"I'm terribly sorry for any broken heirlooms, but weeping angels aren't like algebra. There's no universal formula for dealing with them, no easy solutions. Last time I met them, I had to dump them into a crack in space and time. You haven't got one of those handy, have you?" the Doctor asked.

"If our lives weren't on the line, I'd strangle you! 'Cracks in time and space,' what rubbish!" Molly shouted.

"Death threats, those'll really help me think."

Molly grabbed fistfuls of her hair and yanked. She was losing her mind, and it was as much the Doctor's fault as it was the angel's.

"You've got nice hair, don't pull it out," George said, reaching a hand towards his wife.

"I wouldn't have to pull it out if this tosser was of any use!"

Being insulted despite the fact, as he'd clearly articulated, _none of this was his fault_, was really beginning to wear on the Doctor. He could bear the angel banging about upstairs, he could bear having light fixtures lobbed at his brilliant head, and he could bear being injured for complete strangers. He couldn't bear all those things and then, on top of them, being called a tosser.

"I am _sorry_! What you don't seem to understand is that, for as marvelous and clever as I am, I have my limits. The weeping angels are one of the oldest life forms in the universe, and they didn't achieve that through sheer luck. They are smart, faster than you can believe, and adaptable. Some are happy to settle on a planet, pick a lair, and scavenge whoever wanders by. They're dangerous enough. But what you've got here has quite a bit more motivation. If I can't stop them, Earth's got a grim, terrifying future," the Doctor said.

If George hadn't grabbed Molly's hands and held them, she might have ended up with two enormous bald patches. As was, she made an unbelievable noise that was half scream, a quarter sob, and a quarter werewolf's howl.

"The angel from my garden wants to conquer the world," Molly cried. In a more fluid rendition of the weeping angel's normal stance, Molly covered her eyes with her hands and began to sob. George, completely ignoring the angel in front of him, turned his back on it and embraced his wife.

The Doctor had nothing against emotions—his worst enemies tended to lack them—but there were times a Dalek or Cyberman had definite advantages over the passion-riddled human being. A Dalek would, if ordered, watch the weeping angel forever. Daleks didn't have to blink; they didn't even have the required equipment.

"Amy, Bob, no synchronized blinking. We're down to three and the angel upstairs may know it," the Doctor warned.

"Not a problem, Doctor. I hardly have to blink anymore. Enough videogames and computer screens will do that to you," Bob said.

The Doctor risked a quick look at Bob. The kid was staring straight ahead with detached intensity. His eyes belonged on the promotional poster for a horror movie; even the Doctor had to admit their unblinking, unmoving concentration unnerved him.

"How long can you do that?" the Doctor asked.

"I don't know. I've been in tons of staring contests at school and nobody ever lasted longer than a minute," Bob replied, his eyes keeping the same almost zombie-like sheen.

"It's creepy."

"I know. I do it to my mum to scare her."

"Maybe you'll scare the angels."

"That would be brilliant."

The Doctor looked away from Bob's unsettling stare. He looked at the angel, then, almost against his will, he was drawn back to Bob. The boy could have been quantum-locked himself for all he moved and that observation made the Doctor think thoughts he didn't want to think.

Though he didn't want it to, a plan began to coalesce in the Doctor's head. A plan he didn't dare speak, let alone enact. A terrible, immoral plan that put an innocent twelve-year-old in horrific danger. A plan he was ashamed of, a plan he deserved to be slapped for ever considering, a plan—

"Doctor, are you alright?" Amy asked.

"Yes, fine, don't worry about me. Eyes on the angel, Amy. We can't expect Bob to do it all himself."

"I'm looking at the angel but I see you out the corner of my eye. You're shaking, Doctor. What's wrong?"

"I'm a monster."

Amy gasped. "You are not! I've met monsters and you are not one of them."

"Yes I am. I'm considering something inexcusable."

"It can't be that bad."

"I'm going to kill Bob."

That confession broke Bob's concentration and he blinked. He looked over at the Doctor, his formerly impassive eyes now filled with plenty of fear and uncertainty.

"What for?" Bob asked.

"I have a plan; no I don't, ignore me! I won't do it. I'd let the angel murder me first."

Molly, not a mother, not even an aunt, suddenly found a maternal instinct she'd never known before fill her with new vigor. She stopped sobbing, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and untangled herself from George's hug. She turned on the Doctor, strength and determination replacing the helplessness that had held her in sway only moments ago.

"Whatever you want him for, Doctor, you can have me. The angels are in my house, ruining my life and property, and I will help you get rid of them," Molly said.

"That's noble and brave, but that's not the test you have to pass. How long can you keep your eyes open? Look at the angel and count aloud. Stop when you blink," the Doctor said.

Molly wiped her eyes to clear them of any lingering tears and then faced the angel. She tried to imagine that everyone else was gone, and she alone was responsible for keeping the angel immobile and harmless. Squaring her shoulders, Molly locked her eyes on a discolored spot of stone and began to count.

"Seven, eight, damn it."

"Eight seconds. That's how long you and I would have survived if this had been real," the Doctor said.

"Let me try again," Molly pleaded.

"No, you're dead. Dead humans don't get a second chance," the Doctor replied.

Since Molly had failed to prove herself, George supposed it was only right he take a turn. It was his fault, after all, that the angel was there at all. He'd bought it and brought it home.

"I'll give it a go," George said.

George lasted twice as long as his wife before he blinked. The Doctor shook his head, rejecting George's effort. Seventeen and a half seconds were not going to be enough, not even if every aspect of the Doctor's plan went exactly how he wanted.

"Doctor, I can do it," Amy said. "It's all in winking instead of blinking."

The Doctor's hands clenched into fists. He knew, among all the humans in the room, Amy was the least likely to blink at the wrong moment. She'd handled herself masterfully on Alfava Metraxis—she'd faced down a forest of angels while another gestated in her mind—and the Time Lord was confident she'd stand by him now. It was his personal, selfish feelings that made him reluctant. He'd never be able to face Rory if Amy died on his watch and he'd never be able to forgive himself if Amy met a less-than-fairytale ending.

"That's precisely why I need you down here. You know what you're doing. You're practically an expert on angels, all the experience you have with them. I need to know this one isn't going to sneak up behind me," the Doctor said.

"Doctor, you're worried I'll die if I go up there, aren't you?" Amy asked.

"Of course I am! Anyone I take with me is going to be in terrible danger. I want to do it myself, I really do, but every bloody plan I come up with needs two people."

"But I signed up for it. These people didn't," Amy protested.

"The angel's mine, I've got the receipt for it. None of this would have happened if I hadn't bought it. If anyone should risk their life, it should be me," George said.

"Don't be a prat, George. I told you to get me an angel. It's my fault," Molly refuted.

The Doctor groaned. "This is not going to turn into a self-sacrifice conga line."

While George, Molly, and Amy argued over who was most qualified, Bob was granted the opportunity to examine the situation as an outside observer. He realized something that everyone else, in their haste, had overlooked.

"What is the plan, anyway? We don't even know what we're fighting over," Bob said.

"Bob, you are brilliant. I'm going to call your Brilliant Bob from now on," the Doctor said. "I'll tell you the plan—horrible thing that it is—and then we can decide who wants to hit me first for suggesting it."

The Doctor shuffled his thoughts until he had them in proper order. Then he explained, "One against an angel is a losing formula, and that's in a pure survival situation. To stop an angel for good, you need a team. You lot are my team, and here's what my incorrigible mind suggests we do: I take the bedroom door off its hinges. That way, I can't have it closed and I can't be beaten against it. Then my new best mate shines his or her torch around the room until we find the angel. Then my new mate keeps his or her eyes on the angel, unblinking, while I maneuver the angel onto Brilliant Bob's skateboard. I'm not quite sure how to accomplish that. Maybe with levers. Yeah, I like levers. Then we wheel the angel out of the room, keeping both our eyes on it."

"We're going to make the angel skateboard? Fantastic!" Bob cheered.

"Glad you like it. Now, there's only the matter of picking my partner, and finding a new torch. The old one's dead," the Doctor said.

The house that failed to produce a dolly, cart, or roller-skates also failed to produce a spare torch. The Doctor couldn't say he was surprised, although it was a serious setback. He needed something with a steady, powerful glow to ensure the angel stayed in view. Birthday cake candles, which were what George suggested, simply would not do.

Just as the plan looked like it would fail completely, Molly's memory was stoked. She remembered that while she had been fetching the hammer, she'd seen an old lantern in the shed. She voiced this, and the Doctor jumped on it.

"Yes, wonderful, go get it!"

Molly hurried out to the shed and returned with the lantern. It was dusty and its batteries had drained long ago but the Doctor looked satisfied. He accepted the lantern and aimed his sonic screwdriver at it.

Like the torch before it, the lantern soon glowed with an unnatural luminosity. The Doctor was immensely pleased because the lantern produced a much broader area of light. A torch produced a single, concentrated beam. The lantern would fill the room with light. There would be no dark pockets for the angel to hide in.

"Wish I'd had this at the beginning," the Doctor said, holding the glowing lantern at arm's length. Holding it any closer made his eyes water.

With the light source squared away, there was only the matter of the Doctor's volunteer. Molly couldn't keep her eyes open for ten seconds, so she had to be excluded. George was slightly better, but there was no way the Doctor could lever the angel onto the skateboard in seventeen seconds. Amy was a promising candidate, and would have been his choice if not for those damned emotions that wracked the Doctor whenever he thought about her. Bob and his inhuman stare were the most useful, but Bob wasn't even a teenager yet.

"I know you think I'm too young to risk my life, but I live right down the street. When the angels finish here, they'll be after my family next," Bob said, as though reading the doubt straight from the Doctor's mind.

"Brilliant Bob, you're too clever for your own good," the Doctor muttered.

"I suppose that means I'm in," Bob said.

"I'll never forgive myself for this, but yes, Bob. You're in. Let's go."

* * *

Good news: one report down. Bad news: two remaining.


	6. In the Arms of an Angel

Thanks for the reviews. They bring me tons o' joy.

* * *

The Doctor handed the lantern to Bob, who accepted it with great enthusiasm. While it was a far cry from the fantastic screwdriver, the lantern still fascinated Bob. It had, after all, come in contact with technology that had to be alien. Bob could hardly have been more excited if he'd been allowed to hold a piece of a crashed starship.

"You should probably turn it down. I don't think blinding light will help with the not blinking," the Doctor said.

"Right," Bob replied. His eyes had started to burn from the intensity of the light, and when he looked away, he saw dark circles floating in his vision. He dialed down the searing glow until the lantern was hardly brighter than normal.

"Where's that skateboard? Ah, there it is." The Doctor snatched the board up from the counter.

The Doctor turned the skateboard over in his hands, examining it for any cracks or flaws that could jeopardize the plan. He spun the wheels, ran his fingers over the grip tape, and grinned at the British flag graphics on the bottom of the board. There was nothing like showing loyalty to crown and country, even if the symbol of said loyalty would eventually be shredded and scraped off.

"It's new, isn't it?" the Doctor asked.

"I broke the last one—it was my favorite—jumping off the roof. It was too old to handle the stress, but it was a bloody good board," Bob said.

"Your mother'd kill you if she knew," Molly said. "And she'd kill me for not telling her all the things I've seen you do. You're lucky I'm young enough to appreciate the art form."

"Yeah, but it was all just for fun before. Now my skateboard's going to save the world. Sounds like a good cartoon, doesn't it? Brilliant Bob and his board save humanity. I could fight a different monster every week, and my mum could have a stroke an episode."

The Doctor made a mental note to see if he couldn't avert some future crisis with only a skateboard. Bob was right; it did sound like a fantastic concept.

"I love my mum," Bob suddenly said, and he sounded dangerously close to crying. "I don't want the angels to kill her, or my sister, or my hamster."

The Doctor pulled the boy close and hugged him. "They won't. We'll deal with the one upstairs, and we'll use it against the one down here. We'll get rid of them both for good."

"'Course we will. We're Brilliant Bob and his sidekick Doctor Bowtie."

Bob's confidence restored, the Doctor had only one last thing to do before facing the angel. He had to make sure George and Molly remained alive while he wasn't around to babysit them. Amy would need no warning and no reminder—she would need an explanation, and a damn good one, later—but the other two were still blinking away. They were a danger to themselves, to Amy, and to the entire Earth.

"George, Molly, I need you to concentrate. No matter what you hear, no matter how badly your eyes itch, no matter how hungry or bored or irritated you may get, don't take your eyes off the angel. Never. Not for any reason."

The couple vowed to keep their eyes open. George half-heartedly joked about getting the stapler for good measure. The Doctor managed a wilted grin.

"Amy, lovely, wonderful Amy Pond, don't let those two kill themselves."

"And don't you dare come back as an angel, Doctor," Amy replied.

"Will do."

"You either, Brilliant Bob."

"Okay."

The Doctor and Bob left the kitchen. They crossed the living room like a pair of grim soldiers headed towards a battle they weren't sure they could win. At the foot of the stairs, the Doctor stopped. He looked at Bob and then shook his head. He couldn't go through with this.

"Go back and tell Amy I changed my mind. Tell her to take your place," the Doctor said.

"No."

"You've got to listen to me, I'm the Doctor."

"The only one I've got to listen to is my mum, and I don't even do that sometimes."

"Brilliant Bob…"

"Doctor Bowtie…"

"I'm going to tell your mum you skateboard off the roof."

"You're lying."

There was no fooling the boy. He truly deserved his title of Brilliant Bob, though the Doctor wasn't happy he couldn't even intimidate a twelve-year-old. Maybe this regeneration was too adorable and unimposing.

"Yes, I am lying. I would never report even my worst enemy to his mother. Most of them haven't even got mothers anyway," the Doctor said. "Weeping angels, for instance. No mothers."

"That's sad."

"It is. But you tend to overlook that fact when they're threatening to kill you or take over your favorite planet."

Bob and the Doctor decided they would leave their sympathy downstairs. Once they'd shed any feelings of pity they might have had for the angels—not that there were many—they ascended the stairs. The Doctor took the lead, and Bob followed close behind.

The hall looked as though barbarian hordes had recently run down it. All the pictures had been knocked from the walls, the walls themselves had been clawed by the angel, and it looked like the angel had tried to tear up the carpet. When George and Molly saw the damage, the Doctor reckoned the Ood would hear them screaming.

"Wait here, just for a second. I'm not getting ambushed again," the Doctor said.

The Doctor nudged open the door to George and Molly's bedroom. The room hadn't been mangled by the angel. That was good. At least the homeowners, when they were done shrieking, would have somewhere undamaged and dark to have a good cry.

The bathroom hadn't faired so well. The Doctor surmised things would be bad for the loo when he noticed the door handle had been torn off and a parabola of carpet outside the room was wet. He gently opened the door. Oh, George and Molly would not be happy.

The scene before him explained a majority of the bangs and crashes everyone downstairs had heard. The angel had gone mental on everything in the loo; not even the bar of soap on the sink had been spared. Chunks of porcelain from the toilet, shards from the mirror, the shredded remains of the shower curtain, blobs of toothpaste, and unidentifiable debris littered the floor. Water was spurting like arterial blood from the naked pipes. It wouldn't be long before that water started dripping down on the floor below.

"They'll hear the screaming at the end of the universe," the Doctor muttered. "Rose'll probably be able to hear it."

He backed out of the loo, his shoes splashing in the water that covered the floor. Bob was still waiting at the end of the hall. The Doctor beckoned the kid forward with a motion of his hand. Once Bob was at his side, the Doctor leaned down a bit so he'd be at eyelevel with the boy.

"You are not, under any circumstances, to come into that bedroom. Nothing in this universe or any other will get you past the door. Nothing. Am I clear?" the Doctor asked.

"But what if you get in trouble?" Bob asked.

"Then run for your life and don't look back. If I can't fight off the angel, neither can you."

"But what if you cark it?"

"Cark it…ooh, I like that. That's funny, in an impersonal, euphemistic way."

"But what if you do?"

"Tell Amy she inherits my grand mess and to do her best with it."

The Doctor straightened up and looked back down the hall towards the guest bedroom. He took a step forward before abruptly pivoting and turning to face Bob. He reached into his pocket, which was bigger on the inside, and pulled out his sonic screwdriver.

"I've decided you may touch it, but only for a second. Not one millisecond longer," the Doctor said.

Bob could have questioned the Doctor's ulterior motives for suddenly being so liberal with his screwdriver, but decided not to risk losing the opportunity. This was something that bordered on _magic_, and if there was something twelve-year-old British boys loved, it was magic.

"And your time is…three…two…one…_finito_." The Doctor snatched back his sonic screwdriver.

The Doctor, with Bob following close behind, proceeded to the end of the hall. The door to the guest bedroom had been left intact, which made it the single luckiest object on the second floor.

"Stand back a bit, Bob. Wouldn't want the door falling on you and knocking any of that brilliance out of your head," the Doctor said. Bob obediently backed away.

Screwdriver in hand, the Doctor knelt down and began to work on the door hinges. It felt a bit odd, using the sonic device not for blasting robots or tinkering with circuits but for simple screw-driving. There just seemed to be so much wasted potential.

The hinges were no match for the sonic screwdriver. Once the bottom one had been removed, the Doctor moved onto the top one. In seconds, the top hinge, all its screws gone, fell off the door.

"I'm going to remove the door. Hope it isn't heavy. As soon as I get it out of the way, turn the lantern on."

The Doctor needed both hands free, and placed the skateboard on the floor and his screwdriver in his pocket. That accomplished, he grasped the door knob with his right hand and braced his left against the door. He pulled on the knob gently, intending to tilt the door from the frame and then lay it down in the hall.

The door would not budge. Confused, the Doctor pulled harder. The door remained as stalwart as Winston Churchill.

"Oh," the Doctor murmured as he realized why the door was being stubborn. On the other side, the angel was mirroring him. It, too, was clutching the doorknob and it was quite a bit stronger.

"Is it too heavy? Do you want my help?" Bob asked.

"The angel's fond of the door, obviously. It's not letting me have it."

"What're you going to do?"

"Pull. Pull very, very hard."

The Doctor put his brilliant plan into action. He grasped the doorknob with both hands, dug his shoes into the carpet, and pulled for all he was worth.

Proving it had a well-developed, if completely sick and sadistic, sense of humor, the angel let the door go. The Doctor didn't have time to react before he found himself flat on the ground. The door landed on top of him and completely covered him.

Bob burst into laughter.

"That's not funny," the Doctor grumbled as he extricated himself from underneath the door.

Mercifully, the door had not been overly heavy. He was able to shrug it off and stand. Once he was standing, the Doctor categorized his new injuries.

"Did you break your arse?" Bob asked.

"I don't think so. Bruised it? Yeah, that feels about right," the Doctor said.

For the sake of the Doctor's glorious backside, this had to end before there was any permanent injury or disfigurement. The Doctor wasn't eager to go back into the dark room that loomed before him, but he had no other choice. For the future of the Earth—and his arse—he had to do it.

"Alright, Bob, turn on the light."

Bob dialed up the lumens. Even from the middle of the hall, light began to invade the bedroom, beating back the shadows and diminishing the area the angel had to hide.

"Come a bit closer."

Bob brought the beacon lantern towards the Doctor. He'd taken half a dozen steps when something whipped past his head with the speed of tornado-driven debris. The mysterious flying object struck the wall above the stairs and left a fist-sized hole.

"What was that? What's it chucking?" Bob asked, his voice quavering. He'd come within centimeters of being knocked in the head, and his heart was pounding from the close call.

"Looked like a piece of the toilet. Or possibly the sink."

"Do you think it's got more things to throw at us?"

"Oh yes. Lots more."

A smaller projectile shot from the room. This one was better aimed and controlled than the first, and struck the Doctor in the shoulder. He yelped and swore in a language Bob didn't understand but was delighted by the sheer _filthiness_ of.

"So that's how you want it, hmm? Fine! You've angered the Oncoming Storm, and now you're going to learn why there's not a species—Oi! That was almost my face!" the Doctor yelled as something analogous in size to a cricket ball sailed over his head.

"Stop yelling at it and do something!" Bob suggested.

"Right. I'm going in."

The Doctor tried for the doorway and ended up having to dive to the floor. He covered his head with his hands as someone would during a bombing drill. What looked to be half the toilet had just coming flying at him. If he hadn't reacted instantly, he would have taken the porcelain missile right to the chest.

"Bob, get out of the line of fire. Press yourself against the wall," the Doctor said.

There was no confirmation from Bob. Nor was there the sound of feet rustling on the carpet as Bob moved.

"Bob?"

Silence. The Doctor felt fear, closely followed by crushing guilt, wash over him like a tsunami. The projectile had been aimed at his chest. Bob was shorter. If it had hit him, it would have collided with the boy's head.

"Bob?"

Nothing, not so much as a groan of pain.

The Doctor couldn't stand not knowing if Bob was alive, dying, or dead from a crushed skull. He knew turning his back on the angel was inviting death with open arms, but he refused to let a young boy die if there was anything he could do about it. Besides, he was a sitting duck in his current position. If the angel had any more heavy artillery, the Doctor's face would be its first victim.

"Hold on, Bob."

The Doctor leapt to his feet and spun around to face Bob. He immediately saw what had silenced the boy. Bob was lying on the floor and blood—not a lake of it but certainly a puddle—stained the carpet around his head. The kid wasn't dead, wasn't even fully unconscious, but he was dazed enough to keep him from sitting up.

The Doctor ran towards Bob. There wasn't much distance between them, but before the Doctor could make it more than a few steps the angel snagged a handful of his jacket. The Doctor shrugged out of the jacket and let the angel have it.

He managed another three steps and was nearly at Bob's side when the angel grabbed something the Doctor couldn't shed so easily: his hair. The Time Lord was jerked to an abrupt, intensely agonizing stop. Pain tore through his scalp and seemingly traveled through his skull and into the core neurons on his mind. The Doctor cried out.

"Agh! Not the hair, no, not the hair!"

With one unyielding stone hand tangled in his hair and pulling hard enough to bring involuntary tears to his eyes, the Doctor was all but helpless. He couldn't move without putting even more pressure on his tortured scalp, and he couldn't get the angel to release him. Clawing desperately at the angel's fingers did nothing but produce a rasping sound as the Time Lord's fingernails slid fruitlessly down obdurate rock.

The angel did not intend to let the Doctor struggle for long. With unparalleled speed, the weeping angel yanked the Doctor off balance. He stumbled back and the angel reached its free hand forward. Before the Doctor realized what was happening, the angel's arm was pressed against his throat, holding him immobile.

The Doctor closed his eyes. He was a dead man. As dead as the rest of his species. Any second now, the angel would snap his neck, finish him. The Doctor felt his twin hearts explode into a mad rhythm, as though they were desperate to get in as many beats as possible before they were stilled.

The burst of pain the Doctor expected did not arrive. The angel didn't so much as twitch, and the Doctor wondered what it was waiting for. Maybe it enjoyed building the tension and letting its victim stew in a state of suppressed panic.

"Doctor?"

That wasn't the angel's voice; the angel couldn't even talk. The Doctor opened his eyes and found what had saved him.

Bob was standing, though he looked wobbly and in danger of falling over. The boy was pressing a bloodstained hand to his head, and he had taken on an unhealthy pallor. He was staring straight at the Doctor and, despite the blow to his head, there was no murkiness or confusion in his eyes.

"Doctor? What happened?"

"I'm sorry, Bob, I really am. But I'm afraid I'm about to cark it."

* * *

Random AN: In memory of John Lennon, dead 30 years now, let's all agree to make love, not intergalactic war. That includes you too, you damned Daleks.


	7. Serious Business

Thanks for the reviews!

Hush2.0: I swear on whatever you'd like me to swear on I have not forgotten that fic. I'm about halfway done with the next chapter and will hopefully have it up in say, a week.

* * *

Bob swayed on his feet and listed dangerously to the right. The boy brought his bloody hand away from his head and, as he stumbled, braced himself against the wall. That kept him from tumbling over like an inebriate, though it also stained the wall with a gory handprint.

The Doctor watched with great pity as Bob struggled to stay upright. He knew the boy had to be in pain—though the blow to the head might have left him too scrambled to fully appreciate that pain—and just standing had to be taxing. The Doctor knew why Bob was fighting so strongly; the boy recognized that the second he broke eye contact with the angel, the angel broke the Doctor's neck.

"Don't worry about me, Bob. Get out of here while you can," the Doctor said.

"It'll kill you. I can't go," Bob replied.

"There's no way around it killing me. That's going to happen. You're the variable, you can save yourself. What the angel's going to do to me is going to be quick. So quick I probably won't feel much, so don't worry about that. Worry about getting away. Tell Amy what happened. And tell her…tell her I look forward to being a ginger. She'll understand."

"I don't understand and I'm not leaving. But I'll get your mate up here," Bob said.

"That'll kill George and Molly. They need Amy."

"They'll be okay. _You_ need Amy."

Having made up his mind, Bob blocked out the rest of the Doctor's protests. He cleared as many of the cobwebs from his head as he could and shouted.

"Amy! Amy Pond, the Doctor needs you now! Please hurry!"

In seconds, there was the sound of feet racing up the stairs. Amy, breathless and worried, appeared at the end of the hall. She took one look at the mess the Doctor was in and clapped a hand over her mouth. Her body went cold as she realized how thoroughly the angel had the Doctor trapped.

"Doctor, oh God," Amy cried. "How're you getting out of this?"

He couldn't lie to her now. He hadn't lied when the angel in her mind was about to take her over, and he wasn't going to lie about his own impending death. She was a big girl and she could handle the truth no matter how cruel it was.

"I don't think I am. And that's alright. Well, no, it's not. It's not even half right or a quarter right. But I'll survive. Ooh, no I won't," the Doctor said, wincing at his choice of words.

"Don't you think now might be a good time to be serious?" Amy asked.

"Actually, now would be a terrible time to be serious. I haven't got much longer in this body and I would hate to waste that time feeling sad," the Doctor replied.

"Maybe you wouldn't have to die if you'd stop with the wordplay and use that brain of yours! Think, Doctor! There's got to be some way out of there. It's only one angel, and if a whole pack of them couldn't kill you, one shouldn't be able to, either."

"You're not making me feel any better," the Doctor complained.

"I'm not here to make you feel good! I'm here to save your stupid life. Now shut up and think of something."

"You can't tell me to shut up!"

"Shut up and plan something brilliant."

Amy was right. Just because the angel was nearly pulling his scalp off and was one blink away from twisting his head like a bottle top, that was no reason to give up and accept his fate. He'd been, over his 900 years, in some unbelievable tight spots. He hadn't gotten out of all of them—hence him being the Eleventh Doctor—but he'd escaped more often than he'd died.

"Right, a plan. Let's see. I'll need…"

"A pair of scissors," Bob suggested.

Bob staggered forward until he was standing alongside Amy. She hadn't even noticed him when she'd first come off the stairs, but now that he was so close, she couldn't help but glance over at him. Poor Bob was in rough shape. He was pressing his hand against his head again, and blood had run down onto his wrist. It had also been smeared along his face, leaving him marked with smudges of blood that looked like carelessly placed clown makeup.

"You've got to help him, Amy. Head wounds bleed like mad, and he hasn't got much blood to spare," the Doctor said.

"And butter," Bob muttered, as though he hadn't heard the Doctor at all.

Amy and the Doctor both took that seemingly random statement as a bad sign. If Bob was saying incoherent things, something was seriously the matter with him. The mental fuzziness could be a sign of blood loss, or it could be a sign of an injured brain. Neither option was positive, and either could potentially kill Bob.

"Oil, too. We need that."

"Amy, help him. Get him out of here and do it fast."

"No! I know what I need to do. I know how to fix this!" Bob suddenly exclaimed. Without offering an explanation, he turned from Amy and headed for the stairs. His footsteps were unsteady, and he weaved across the hall in a vague zigzag pattern. It would be a miracle if he reached the stairs without falling flat on his face.

The Doctor could have screamed from frustration. "He's going to fall down the stairs and die! Don't you dare let that happen, Amy Pond."

"I'm good, don't worry about me," Bob called. He had reached the top of the stairs, and was about to attempt descending them.

"Brilliant Bob, get away from there!" the Doctor shouted.

"Two ticks, Doctor Bowtie. Two ticks," Bob replied.

Then he was on the stairs, clutching the banister but moving far faster than the Doctor would have thought possible.

"If I hear him fall, I'll leave you here. Until then, I'm not moving and I'm not blinking," Amy said.

"Of course he's going to fall, he could hardly stand," the Doctor said. "There's nothing you can do for me but there's tons you could do for Bob. Like save his life."

"And what about you then? I turn my back on you and run away and you die. You have to understand what you're asking of me. You're asking me to kill you."

"I'm asking you to trust me."

"Please don't do that, Doctor. Please," Amy begged.

"Trust me, Amy Pond. Run as fast as you can. Don't look back, no matter what."

Amy found her vision going blurry as tears formed. Her first instinct was to blink and clear her eyes and before she could stop herself, she'd done it. Both eyes closed for just a fraction of a second and the angel was left unwatched.

In that miniscule time period, the angel had jerked the Doctor's head to the right. It would take only one more blink for the angel to finish the job.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" Amy sobbed.

The Doctor shushed her. "You've got nothing to be sorry for. You blinked; it's what humans do."

"I blinked when your life was on the line. Look what happened."

"Blame the angel. Or me. Or George and Molly, but I'd rather you didn't. We're responsible for this, not you."

Amy couldn't believe it. The Doctor was the one with his neck bent at an awkward, unpleasant angle and he was trying to make _her_ feel better. It was disgusting. It was like a condemned man easing his executioner's conscience.

"How can you do it? I don't understand how you can be so calm. When I had the angel inside my mind, I was so afraid. But you…" Amy had to stop herself. If she said anything else, she'd start crying.

"I am afraid. Very, very afraid. But there's no point in showing it, is there? It would only hurt you and Bob, and the angels like their victims' fear. I'd rather not make the angels happy."

Her Doctor, always so brave and selfless. Always battling horrible creatures, saving the universe from sure destruction, and experimenting with increasingly weird hats. If he died here, the poor bloke would never get a chance to don the wildly adorned six-meter ceremonial headdress of Inoor.

That couldn't be allowed to pass. The Doctor deserved to wear his giant alien hat and Rory and Amy deserved the opportunity to laugh themselves silly over it. The angel had no right to deny them all their entertainment.

"Doctor, you have absolutely no reason to be afraid. We'll find a way to get you out, and until then, I won't blink. Once this is all sorted out, we can go to Inoor just like you wanted and you can wear that big hat you've been going on about all week," Amy said, injecting as much pep and cheer into her voice as was humanly possible.

"Ceremonial headdress, yeah. Amy, your eyes feel like they're about to shrivel up and drop from their sockets, don't they?" the Doctor asked.

Amy couldn't deny it. "Yeah, they do. But I—"

"I haven't got long, then, so I'll make this quick. Amy, it's been wonderful. Absolutely, unequivocally fantastic. All our adventures—even the really awful ones—were brilliant. Thank you. And repeat this to Rory, by the way, because I like him, too. I might be able to do it myself, but I wouldn't be this version of myself when I said it. Not quite as sentimental."

Amy realized then that she'd forgotten one of the Doctor's major secrets. "Time Lord regeneration! You will be alright, even if the angel does kill you."

"I'll _probably_ be alright. I know that's not very assuring, but there are some potential problems," the Doctor said.

"Problems? What kind of problems? Your species can come back from the dead, but the deal comes with a giant asterisk?"

"It's not _that_ big of an asterisk. There're just some stipulations. Instant death, for one. A Time Lord dies too quickly, his body doesn't get a chance to regenerate. A broken neck, that's going to be fast. But I know it's coming, so I should be able to regenerate. That's one of the reasons I want you to listen to me and get out of here. I'll know exactly when to expect…it. You could blink at random any time, and I wouldn't be able to prepare."

"I'm not gonna blink and I'm not gonna leave you! How many times do I have to tell you that? Bob will—"

Anger he didn't want to show flooded the Doctor. With viciousness that shamed him, he snapped, "Bob is twelve-year-old boy suffering from head trauma! For all we know, he collapsed at the bottom of the stairs and died! You're placing all your hope on him and he doesn't deserve that!"

"I can't give up on you! I've got to believe Bob actually has a plan, and wasn't just making some mad shopping list," Amy replied.

"Scissors, butter, and oil, does that sound logical to you?"

"No, but neither does hitting the most advanced machine in the universe with a hammer and expecting to fix it. But you do that all the time."

"That's different."

Maybe it was and maybe it wasn't. Amy wasn't going to argue over the finer points of TARDIS repair anymore than she was going to blink. Even if her eyes burned like she'd just poured salt into them. She was just going to stand here, resolute as the Queen's guards, and wait for something to happen. What that something was, she wasn't sure quite yet. She'd know it when she saw it.

"Amy…"

"No, Doctor, I'm not going anywhere. I'll hold my eyelids up if I have to. I'm prepared to go blink-less for the next five years, if that's how long it takes."

"Amy."

"Do you see this? This is me not blinking."

"Amy!"

"What is it now?"

"I hear someone on the stairs."

"Oh."

"Bob? Is that you?"

"Sorry I took so long. Mrs. Mason tied a dish towel around my head to stop the bleeding. I look like a git."

The Doctor smiled. "Don't let the people of Diledi Seven hear that. They're very fond of their towels."

Amy squirmed like a child who had to use the loo. Her eyes were seconds away from spontaneously combusting, and she didn't even dare wink, lest the unattended eye become jealous and blink out of spite. She didn't want to rush Bob, not when the only medical attention he'd received consisted of a towel, but she couldn't hold out much longer.

"Bob, how close are you?" Amy asked, a dollop of panic creeping into her voice.

"Almost there. Sorry I'm so slow but my head feels wonky."

"Take your time, we're—alright, we're not doing so brilliantly. My eyes…"

They both heard Bob's sharp inhalation. "Don't blink! I'm almost there, please don't blink!"

Her vision was going blurry and her eyes felt coated in sand, crushed glass and grit. She couldn't keep them open any longer. It was physically impossible. She was going to do it, going to…

Blink.

* * *

TBC


	8. The Good and Noble Bowtie

Thanks for the reviews! I very much appreciate, enjoy, and celebrate them all.

* * *

She'd blinked. Oh God, she'd blinked! Her puny human willpower had failed her and her desperate, desiccated eyes couldn't take any more and she'd blinked! She'd blinked and killed the Doctor! She was never going to forgive herself, even if he regenerated without complication and emerged fresh, new, and ginger. Not even if he loved his new body would she ever, in a million years—

"I'm not dead," the Doctor said brightly.

Amy was yanked out of her spiraling, black whirlpool of misery and remorse. She landed, bedraggled and with her nerves frazzled, back in her proper state of mind.

"Doctor, I can't take many more of these near-death experiences. I really can't," Amy said. Her stressed heart, pounding madly in her chest, couldn't have agreed more.

"What? Near-death experiences build character. They're not so bad," the Doctor replied.

"What! Not so bad! They're awful!" Amy shouted.

"When you put it that way, I see your point. They're complete rubbish and I'm getting far too old to keep experiencing them. It isn't healthy."

"Exactly. Now let's get you out of there before you have any more. Bob? Are you there? I'm going to assume you are."

Bob, his head given triage and his arms laden with an eclectic bunch of objects from the kitchen, confirmed his presence. Amy listened to his footsteps—steady as far as she could tell—as he made his way down the hall. He was soon beside her.

With little visible fear on his face, Bob stepped past Amy and closer to the angel. He shifted the burden in his arms, transferring it all to his left arm. His right hand now free, Bob reached his hand out towards the Doctor's face. The Doctor noticed that while Bob had wiped his hands, probably on the towel currently wrapped around his head, traces of blood still adhered to his skin. The Time Lord wasn't sure he wanted to be touched by the blood-flecked hand.

The first step in freeing the Doctor was freeing his hair from the angel's grip. This was easier said than done. The angel had captured a fistful of the Doctor's hair and pulled it taut, and there was precious little room between the stone fingers and the Doctor's scalp. If there had been more available hair, Bob might have been able to work it free with a few careful yanks. As was, the boy's probing fingers only added pressure and pain to the Doctor's stressed head.

"Ow! Bob, watch the hair," the Doctor whined.

"I can't pull it out of the angel's hand. I'm going to have to cut it off," Bob said with all the grimness of a surgeon deciding on amputation.

"You can't cut my hair! It's _my hair_!"

"It's either that or you're stuck with the angel."

"But my hair is a national treasure! A universal treasure, even!"

"It's the only way," Amy reasoned. "Besides, maybe you'd look good with short hair."

"I've already had short hair and I don't miss it! I don't miss the ears, either, but that's not the point. I love it long and floppy," the Doctor cried.

"Do you love your hair or your life more?" Amy asked.

"My life…"

"Then cut away, Bob."

The Doctor whimpered. "Amy, hold my hand." He wiggled his right hand at her.

Amy couldn't help but giggle. The Doctor was like a frightened child who needed comfort to get through the trauma of his first haircut. It was beyond absurd that the same man who could face down the most evil creatures in the universe couldn't face the prospect of losing a few inches of hair.

"Of course, Doctor," Amy said, taking his offered hand in her own.

From the pile of random crap held secure by his left arm, Bob produced a pair of scissors. He snipped the blades together twice, testing how easily the scissors opened and closed. Satisfied that the blades moved easily, Bob moved the scissors towards the Doctor's hair.

The way the Doctor cringed suggested that Bob was coming at him with a hot poker or other incredibly painful instrument of torture. Amy gave the Doctor's hand a reassuring little squeeze. He clamped down on her hand in response.

Bob was by no means a professional barber. His own hair—which hung down well past his shoulders and saw shampoo on average twice a week—hadn't been cut in over two years. This lack of grooming experience didn't perturb or dissuade Bob in the least, however. With a steady hand and much enthusiasm, he began clipping the Doctor's hair.

"Just how much are you cutting off, Sweeney Todd?" the Doctor asked. It seemed like Bob had been cutting away for ages

"Some. A lot. The angel's really got a hold on you," Bob replied. "Maybe it's jealous of your hair 'cause its hair's made out of stone."

"I'm sure it won't be by the time you're done. I won't have any hair left to be jealous of."

"Tell me about the angels."

"If you think you're going to change the subject or distract me, I'll have you know I'm nigh—they're very, very, very, very, very old. Beginning of the universe old. When this solar system was born, the weeping angels were already ancient."

"Cool."

"Not as cool as bowties. Moving on, did you know angels don't care about comfy chairs? Can you imagine that?"

"Never would have guessed," Bob murmured as he clipped away.

"Oh yes, straight from Angel Bob's mouth. Err…let's not talk about him anymore. Here's something interesting: weeping angels can eat electricity. Suck it right out of a torch, light bulb, entire spaceship. What's electricity but energy, after all?"

Bob's breath quickened at the word 'spaceship'. Futuristic screwdrivers were neat, and killer stone angels were wicked, but spaceships trumped all and everything. Bob wondered if the Doctor, who was prattling away, was himself an alien. He looked like a human, but plenty of aliens in movies did, too.

"Angels on a spaceship. Sounds like a movie title, doesn't it? What was that old film? _Rhinoceroses on a Bus_? No, that's too awful a title even for this time. _Spiders on a Hovercraft?_ Closer. It'll come to me eventually."

Before the Doctor could continue his rambling exposé on animals and modes of transportation, Bob finished playing barber. The boy placed the shears back among the jumble and stepped back to get a better idea of what damage he'd done the Doctor's hair.

Since the painful process was now over, Amy released the Doctor's hand. It was just in time, because she needed that hand to cover her mouth. As the Doctor shifted his head away from the angel's clutching fist, he revealed his brand new hairstyle. It was something a proper barber would have been thrown in prison for inflicting on an innocent client.

"Oh no. Oh, nononono," the Doctor moaned, seeing the look on Amy's face.

She burst into laughter so powerful it left her doubled over and shaking with mirth. Bob was biting his lip to keep from laughing. He dearly wanted to, but he couldn't allow himself to be distracted. If he was cackling his head off, he'd end up blinking without a second thought. The sharp snap of the Doctor's neck would be just the thing to sober the experience up.

"It's…I…flat and sorta…chewed on!" Amy choked out between waves of laughter.

"If it's so bloody bad get out of here and let the angel kill me! Whatever I come back as won't have such bad hair!" the Doctor said angrily.

Amy straightened up and tried to look serious. Her serious face lasted about three seconds before the façade broke and she began laughing again. The Doctor fixed her with a look that would have sent a Dalek scurrying. Amy missed it entirely.

"Come on, Mr. Grumpy. We can buy you a hat or a wig. Or…or Mickey Mouse ears at Space Disneyland!" The laughter continued to pour out of Amy while the Doctor's glare got darker and darker.

"I'm going to drop you and Rory off on a horrible planet and find new companions," the Doctor threatened.

"Not with that hair, you're not," Amy replied. That doubled the force of her giggles. "You'll scare 'em off."

"I'll do it! I'll leave you on, uh, Planet Blorch!"

"That sounds so scary," Amy said.

"It's completely horrifying."

"So's your hair."

That was one too many insults to bear peacefully. The Doctor thrashed in the angel's grip, determined to get loose if he had to snap the angel's stony arm off to do it. He shoved against the forearm that pressed against his throat. When it didn't budge, he swore at it in a language composed entirely of clicks and lip-smacking (that only made Amy laugh). When his marvelous and creative use of curse words failed to dislodge the arm, he finally surrendered and went limp.

"I can't get out," the Doctor mumbled.

"Then I guess you can't dump us on Planet Blorch," Amy said.

"I can't take you to the headdress festival, either. No headdress festival, no amusing pictures of me wearing a twenty foot hat."

"We'll have to find a way to get you out, then, won't we? Any ideas, Brilliant Bob?"

Bob examined the situation. "You can't just slide out, can you?"

"I tried but there's not enough room."

"I think you can, but you need help," Bob replied.

"What're you lot going to do, grab my head and pull?"

Bob reached into the assortment of stuff he held and produced a most unlikely object: a stick of butter. He grinned and the Doctor suddenly found himself very nervous. Generally speaking, when people grinned like that—especially when churned dairy products were involved—strange and oft unpleasant things were going to happen.

"You've just got to be slippier," Bob said. "We'll only pull on your head if we have to."

"Saved by butter…eh, it could be worse," the Doctor said. "Let's get this over with."

Permission granted, Bob began smearing cold butter all over the Doctor's neck. For some reason, the Doctor found this both tickling and amusing. He _liked_ having butter rubbed on him. Maybe it would be wisest to keep that newly discovered factoid a secret. It could only lead to awkward conversations or worse. An image of Captain Jack showing up outside the TARDIS with a tub of butter and lascivious plans popped into the Doctor's head.

"He'd do it, too," the Doctor muttered.

"Who'd do what?" Amy asked.

"Oh, the, uh, Prime Minister. He'd, uh, do stuff with things somewhere." Bob and Amy were both decades too young to hear about the good Captain Harkness.

"Right, 'cause that's his job. Doing stuff with things," Amy said.

"Exactly, and he's very good at it. Plenty of stuff going on, plenty of places having things done to them."

"Doctor, you don't have any idea what's going on in your head half the time, do you?"

"Yeah, 'course I do! Mostly."

As much as Bob loved hearing Amy and the Doctor banter, he figured they wanted to get away from the angel—and see it skateboard—at least as much as he did. That considered, Bob decided he'd buttered the Doctor's neck enough. He dropped the squashed remains of the butter on the floor. He doubted Molly and George would even notice a lump of butter compared to their destroyed second story.

"See if you can get out now," Bob said.

The Doctor nodded and tried to slip from the angel's grasp. The butter made it easier and he managed to slide along until becoming snagged by the angel's bent wrist. The weeping angel's hand was angled towards its body and formed a bottleneck the Doctor couldn't get past despite the liberal use of butter.

"Come on, Doctor, you're nearly there. It's just a bit more," Amy encouraged.

"Amy, look at the diameter of my neck. Now look at the space I have to squeeze through. I have _bones_ in my neck and they don't compress easily. If I was an octopus, this would be a walk in the park. Or a swim in the sea, or whatever. But I'm not an octopus."

Bob's solution to the problem was to break out slicker substances. He produced a small plastic bottle of cooking oil. Unscrewing the cap proved impossible with one hand, so he dumped his armload on the floor. Among the items now littering the floor were a roll of tape, a bar of soap, and a few yards of twine.

"First I'm buttered like bread and then greased like a chip. I suppose I'll be peeled like a banana next," the Doctor mused as Bob poured the oil over his head.

As ridiculous as it was given the situation, the strong smell of oil—reminiscent of fried food—made everyone hungry. Neither the Doctor nor Amy had eaten breakfast, let alone lunch. Bob, being a preteen male, was hungry all the time.

"After this is over, we're getting chips. Lots and lots of chips," the Doctor said.

"Chips, those're a great motivator," Amy said.

If a combination of oil and butter couldn't slick him up enough to escape, nothing would. The Doctor braced himself and began what was sure to be an unpleasant, constrictive process. Ignoring the pressure that soon became pain, the Doctor forced himself to keep struggling for the last few inches.

The Doctor suddenly realized he could no longer breathe. That was alright, at least for a while; he could survive longer than a human could without air. He would need to breathe sometime in the near future, however, and that meant he needed to hurry.

Amy realized something was seriously wrong. The Doctor hadn't made any progress in over a minute, and though it was hard to tell from the way he was writhing and twisting, it didn't appear as though his chest was rising and falling in its usual, respiring manner. She could see his poor neck had been seriously squashed, and it was possible he'd compressed his trachea so much it could no longer admit air.

"Doctor, are you alright?" Amy asked.

He stopped squirming for a second and looked Amy directly in the eyes. He opened his mouth and nothing, not so much as a whisper, escaped. Amy took this to mean he was not capable of breathing, let alone speaking. She also decided it was time to step in and lend a hand.

Amy grabbed the Doctor's shirt and gave an almighty yank. He budged a micrometer, if that.

"We've got to work together. I'll pull, and on the count of three, give everything you've got," Amy said.

"Let me help," Bob offered.

"Help by watching the angel. I don't want to get him loose and then have him caught all over again."

"I can do that."

Sure Bob would keep the angel safely stony, Amy tightened her grip on the Doctor's clothes and began to count down. They both tensed as she reached one. Then, in tandem, they both threw all their energy into getting the Doctor out of the angel's clutches.

A second later, Amy found herself sitting on the floor, her back pressed against the wall. The Doctor was sprawled in her lap like an overgrown child. His breathing had been restored, but it was ragged. He was holding a hand up to his throat.

"Doctor?" Amy asked with great concern.

"The claws scratched me a bit. Sharp buggers, should have thought about them."

"How bad did they get you?"

"I've…no! Why?" the Doctor cried.

Amy immediately pried the Doctor's hands away from his throat. She couldn't see what had caused his outburst. He was bleeding from three relatively shallow gouges, but he'd been through far worse.

"This is horrible!" the Doctor moaned pitifully.

"I don't understand. What's wrong, what's happened?"

"The angel…"

"What? What did it do?"

"The humanity! It…"

"Tell me or I'll smack you in the gob!"

"It cut my bowtie."

The cruelties of the universe never cease.

* * *

Hmm. Should I have included a character death warning for the Doctor's glorious bowtie?

Planet Blorch is not mine. I stole it from _Invader Zim_. It was the home of the Slaughtering Rat People.


	9. Teamwork

Thanks for the reviews. They keep me as happy as the Doctor in a banana grove.

* * *

Amy let the Doctor mourn his bowtie from the comfort of her lap. She wanted to shove him off—he was too heavy to bear comfortably and the weeping angel that stood snarling in the middle of the hall _really _had to be taken care of—but interrupting him when he looked so sad and pitiful felt rude. Amy supposed she'd give him a minute to eulogize his bowtie before gently reminding him about the situation at hand.

The Doctor looked down at his bowtie as if it were some small, beloved pet he'd just discovered dead in its cage. The bowtie was completely innocent; it had never done anything asides from hang around in the TARDIS' wardrobe and then, once, had graced the Doctor's neck. It hadn't provoked the angel, hadn't made any rude remarks at the angel's expense, and it certainly hadn't deserved to be cut apart.

"You can take my jacket, you can pull my hair, but when you murder my bowtie, you've gone too far!" the Doctor exclaimed as he rose from Amy's lap.

Tossing his bisected bowtie behind him—it landed in Amy's lap and she casually brushed it off—the Doctor stomped towards the angel. Most creatures, sensing that much hostility radiating off the Doctor, would have been running for their home planet with their tail, either physical or metaphorical, between their legs. The quantum-locked angel remained unfazed.

"And now you're going to pay. Bob, continue staring. Amy, fetch the duct tape. We're going to see if weeping angels know how to skateboard," the Doctor said.

The Doctor walked towards the guest bedroom, snatching up his jacket as he went. He was relieved to find the jacket, unlike his bowtie and his marvelous hair, had survived its encounter with the angel. He slipped back into the coat.

While the Doctor picked up the skateboard, Amy did as told and collected the duct tape. She didn't think the twine—which was hardly stronger than kite string—would be much good, but she picked it up anyway. For all she knew, the Doctor could create some sort of sonic string that had the prehensile strength of steel.

Now that they had all the necessary parts—the skateboard, the angel, and the tape to fasten them together—there was only the small matter of somehow lifting the angel onto the board. Had there been a crane handy, it would have been a simple task. Since the Doctor didn't have time to run around construction sites, flashing his psychic paper and pretending to be an engineer, he'd have to rig something. The lever idea would work, but even with the right material, it wouldn't be easy. And even once he got the lever assembled, there was still the matter of getting the angel on one end, getting enough weight on the other side to raise the angel, and then, somehow, slipping the skateboard under the precariously balanced angel.

All with only three people, one of whom was a bloody mess. The Doctor loved a challenge.

"Right, we're going to recreate one of man's earliest machines: the lever. Very simple, just need a fulcrum and a nice, strong arm. Any suggestions?"

"The fulcrum and arm store?" Bob said.

"Aren't you cheeky? I'm going to change your name to Cheeky Bob."

"But I like Brilliant Bob better," Cheeky Bob complained.

"Fine, for the sake of the tongue-twister, you can be Brilliant Bob. This is fun. When we're done with the angel, I'm going to write a book full of Brilliant Bob Bs," the Doctor said.

Leaving Amy and Bob to keep the angel in sight, the Doctor wandered off to find the suitable parts for his lever. He figured the bathroom would be a good place to start. Porcelain fragments were everywhere, and a nice, thick square one would serve as the perfect fulcrum. The shower curtain rod, depending on its width and composition, could also make a serviceable arm.

Thanks to the gushing pipes, the patch of wet carpet outside the bathroom was spreading like a nasty rash. The Doctor figured the water had to be leaking into the floor below, and was forming a brand new puddle downstairs. He hoped the puddle and the indoor rain were out of Molly's sight. Seeing her house flood from the top down would not aid her concentration.

There was nothing he could do about the water right then—the angel had mangled the plumbing fixtures beyond any hope—so the Doctor splashed his way into the bathroom. His shoes became soaked, and his socks followed suit a second later. The Doctor considered taking them off, if only so he wouldn't squeak with every step, then remembered the debris field of splintered wood, porcelain shrapnel, and other jagged bits. He wisely decided to keep his feet covered.

Like a survivor digging through the wreckage after a terrible storm, the Doctor began to sort through the destruction for anything valuable. He spied part of the curtain rod on the floor and the rest of it jutting out of the ceiling like a stalactite. The ceiling chunk appeared long enough to serve as the lever's arm, so the Doctor tried extracting it. He couldn't so much as make it budge. Even leaping onto it from a running start failed to dislodge it. He had to admit defeat.

With the curtain rod declared a no-go, the Doctor was determined to find a fulcrum. He began to sift through the remains of the toilet. Most of the shards he found were either too small or inappropriately shaped. He needed one with two relatively flat bases, so the fulcrum would remain stable.

After rejecting dozens of pieces, the Doctor finally found one that satisfied him. He slipped it into his pocket and left the bathroom. His sodden shoes slapped the wet floor like sea lion's flippers.

Bob, Amy and the weeping angel were just as he'd left them. Giving Amy and Bob a quick word of encouragement as he passed, the Doctor headed towards the guest bedroom. The angel had gone mad in there, breaking things to use as projectiles. Maybe it had dislodged a length of the bed frame or created some other long, sturdy pole.

The room was dim, but because the door was gone, there was enough light to search by. The Doctor stepped over the remains of the dresser—it had been reduced to splinters, none of which were large enough to use for anything but toothpicks or defeating incredibly stunted vampires—and headed straight for the closet. He had spotted something that might just be perfect.

The angel had torn off the closet doors, snapping one in half and hurling the other across the room. It had left the few naked hangers—and the rod that supported them—untouched, however. The Doctor believed he had just found the last piece of his lever.

The Doctor emerged from the bedroom with the steel rod tucked under his arm. It was a bit long to fit in his pocket, though he was tempted to try nevertheless. Amy and Bob would have been amused to see him pull it out like a magician's never-ending scarf.

"Excellent job, everyone. 'Course if it wasn't an excellent job, I wouldn't have had to tell you. You'd have known when you found yourselves stumbling around the English countryside two hundred years ago," the Doctor said.

"We aren't stumbling around the English countryside, and we don't really want to be. Do you think, maybe, you could hurry up with that lever?" Amy asked.

"Of course I could. And I will. Here I go. Watch me do it."

The Doctor pulled the rough square of porcelain from his pocket and placed it on the floor. Then he balanced the steel rod on top of it. With the precarious lever assembled, the Doctor now needed to get the angel on it.

"Amy, this may be a bit personal, but how much weight can your bones support?" the Doctor asked.

"What kind of question is that?"

"I need someone to tilt the angel, and I want to know how much damage it'll do if it happens to fall on you and crush you."

"Oh. How should I know? Do I look like a doctor to you, Doctor?"

"No, honestly, you don't. But neither do I. I'm not sure if Martha—she is a doctor, an excellent one at that, mind you—really looks like one, either. I suppose she does, more than you or I, at least."

Amy sighed in frustration. "Doctor, you're rambling."

"Am I? 'Course I am. And it's not helping solve the dilemma. You humans can be terribly fragile, yet you don't even bother knowing your own limits! How do you survive long enough to have so many great and bountiful empires?"

"You're going to tell me you know exactly how much weight your bones can take?" Amy raised a skeptical eyebrow.

The Doctor nodded enthusiastically. Not long ago, that nodding would have merrily bounced his hair to and fro. Now he had no hair there to enjoy the bouncing. It made him sad.

"Not only that, but I also know exactly what thermal extremes I can survive—in Fahrenheit, Celsius, and Kelvin—how much blood loss will kill me, how many killer bee stings I can endure, and how many Dalek gun blasts it takes to drop me dead: an unimpressive one."

"That's thorough and morbid," Amy replied.

"Blimey, it is, isn't it? Where were we, anyway? Bones? Right! Chances are, you would be squashed flat if the angel fell on you. So I'm going to put you in charge of the lever," the Doctor said.

"Oh boy, a promotion," Amy muttered.

"Now you're cheeky, too? What's going on here? Is the cheekiness airborne?"

Cheekiness was not the Doctor's main concern at that point, though he reserved the right to investigate it later. The angel presented a more immediate danger, and had to be dealt with. Also, the Doctor was dying to see what it would look like when the skateboarding angel went down the stairs, hopefully head first.

"I'm going to tilt the angel back just far enough for you to slip the lever under it. Then, while I do my best to keep the angel from falling over, you're going to press down on the lever. Stand on it if you need to. I honestly don't know how much force it's going to take to lift the load. I hope you're heavy enough, Pond."

"If I'm not, you could always share some of your Jammie Dodgers. They'll fatten me up," Amy said.

"No, those are my biscuits, and I need every single one of them. Besides, you're getting fish and chips when this is over. Now be ready with the lever," the Doctor replied.

"What's my job, Doctor Bowtie?" Bob asked. Even though the namesake bowtie had been severed, it remained behind in spirit. Bob supposed the Doctor should keep his nickname.

"You've got the best job of all. Also the job that carries the highest risk of hand amputation. When we get the angel up, you're going to slide the skateboard underneath it," the Doctor said. "

Bob was fond of both his hands—most people were—but losing one seemed like an acceptable risk. He was helping save the Earth from an extraterrestrial angel, and sacrifices sometimes had to be made in such extreme circumstances.

"You can count on me," Bob said.

The Doctor handed over the skateboard, and then had to figure out the best way to grab the angel. He wondered if holding onto the wings would offer more control over the stone horror, or if he should wrap his arms around its middle. He supposed he'd have to try a few different positions before his hands were comfortable.

After a bit of maneuvering, the Doctor was ready. He took a firm grip on the angel's wide wings and ever-so-gently began to tilt the angel backwards. If he wasn't slow and careful about it, he was sure he'd find himself pinned underneath the angel, either crushed or wriggling desperately to escape.

The angel was heavy. As his arms bore more and more of its weight, the Doctor began to get worried. Even if Bob's skateboard was sturdy and brand new, it would have a definite weight limit. Though they had no scale handy, the gradual press of the weeping angel against his arms let the Doctor know the angel would test the board to its limit and, though he sincerely hoped not, possibly past that limit.

"Amy, slide the lever underneath," the Doctor said.

Amy did as instructed and stuck the steel rod under the angel. Once it was wedged, she began to press down on the lever. At first nothing happened. She leaned more of her weight on it. The angel moved minutely.

"Careful!" the Doctor warned.

"I wasn't even sure it moved," Amy said.

"Well it did, and it almost slipped off the lever."

"Next time find something that isn't round."

Sighing, Amy pushed down harder. The angel moved a centimeter and the Doctor squeaked. He barely had time to brace the angel before it toppled sideways.

"Pond! Do you want me to drop the angel?" the Doctor asked.

"No, Doctor, I want you to shut up. I'm trying my best here."

Several minutes, frayed tempers, and near-disasters later, the angel was hazardously balanced just far enough off the ground for Bob to get the skateboard under it. He bent down, experienced a brief spell of vertigo as his injured head reminded him of its woes, and managed to roll the skateboard under the angel. Mission accomplished, he stood back up and pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead. He suddenly didn't feel so copacetic.

"As carefully as you can, remove the rod. No sudden movements, no twitches, and for the love of fezzes, don't let the angel fall on my foot," the Doctor said.

After many miniscule movements, slight adjustments, a moment of panic when the Doctor's nose itched furiously and Bob had to leap into action and scratch it, and some incredible swearing on everyone's part, the angel rested safely on the skateboard. The board did not split in half like a fat man's overburdened trousers, though the Doctor did believe cataclysmic failure was inevitable.

For good measure, the Doctor taped the angel to the board. He doubted duct tape would do any good if the angel got out of sight for even a second, but a vengeful bit of his personality enjoyed seeing the angel humiliated. Even if it couldn't feel that humiliation. It had taken his hair and bowtie, and he would take its dignity and its plans for world domination. Seemed about a fair trade.

"This is the most brilliant thing to ever happen," Bob said.

"_The_ most brilliant? Nah. Close, maybe, but not the most brilliant," the Doctor replied.

"What is the most brilliant, then?"

"Me, of course."

Leaving everyone stunned by his acclamation of humility, the Doctor gave the angel a little shove. The skateboard rolled a few centimeters. The Doctor gave it a harder push. It went a few centimeters farther.

"Let's get it to the stairs. I want to see it really go," Bob said.

The Doctor acquiesced. With Amy and Bob lending a hand, the Doctor pushed the angel towards the staircase. Whether the angel went down the steps bum over tea kettle or somehow—though it was highly unlikely—managed to stay upright for the trip, it would be an unequivocally fantastic sight to see. Everyone pushed a little harder and the top landing loomed.

* * *

TBC

I know it's been a bit light on the horror, but I promise you, it is coming. And it's going to be horrifyingly horrible horror.

I am glad everyone's been enjoying the humor, though.


	10. Missing Molly

I am beyond impressed with the number of reviews the last chapter generated. Thanks so much, everyone!

* * *

The angel, taped to the skateboard, stood at the head of the stairs. Bob was to the lonely assassin's left, and rested a hand on its wing. Amy was to the right, and mimicked Bob's pose. The Doctor stood directly behind the angel, both hands planted on its back.

"Count of three, everyone push," the Doctor said. "One, two-"

"Three!" Amy cried.

Together they pushed. Propelled forward, the angel dove off the landing and hit the first step. Somehow, it remained upright, the board bouncing beneath it, until nearly the middle of the staircase. Then it toppled forward and slid the rest of the way down on its stomach, like some great, evil penguin sledding across the ice.

Following the ungodly racket of several hundred pounds of stone descending the stairs on a skateboard, there was complete silence. Amy, Bob, and the Doctor all stared at the winged statue. There were no words—even for the Doctor, who _never_ ran out of words—to properly and fully describe what they'd just witnessed.

The silence couldn't go on forever. Even though they lacked the perfect words, they each possessed plenty of adjectives, interjections, and onomatopoeias to serve as acceptable substitutes. Simultaneously, the Time Lord and humans burst into excited, animate chatter.

"So bloody cool!"

"It worked! I don't believe it, but a plan of yours actually worked!"

"Quantum-locked or not, I hope you felt that. Geronimo! Right on your face."

"Thud! And then it kept going!"

"Slice of fried gold, that was!"

"Wish Rory had been here to see it."

"I really am brilliant, aren't I?"

Grinning madly, each of them continued on in this manner for more than a minute. Then something struck the Doctor as odd. He removed himself from Bob and Amy's exclamations, and pondered. The longer he pondered, the more worried he became.

"Do either of you find it strange Molly isn't shrieking at us?" the Doctor asked.

Amy, who had been in the middle of reenacting the angel's face plant, froze. "What?"

"Molly, she's a bit…loud. You'd think she'd have something to say about the noise the angel skating down the stairs made."

"She definitely should've," Bob said. "She's nice enough, but once I heard her yelling at paint that turned out too green."

"Then something's wrong," the Doctor said. "Come on, let's find out what happened."

The Doctor led the way, with Bob and Amy following close behind. They reached the ground floor, and stopped. They couldn't exactly split up and search; at least one person had to stay behind and watch the angel. After all the energy they'd expended getting it downstairs, nobody wanted to give it the chance to run off and hide in a new lair.

"You two, stay here and make sure our friend doesn't go anywhere," the Doctor said.

"Before you go running off into the great unknown, maybe you should try calling for them. Molly might be just, I don't know, getting used to all this," Amy said

"Wonderful idea, Pond. Molly, George! Anyone home?"

Nobody answered. The Doctor tried once more, raising his voice so Molly, George, and the angel under their supervision could hear him on the off chance they were all outside tidying up the shed. Once again, silence was the reply.

"That is not good," the Doctor muttered.

"Once, just once, I wish it would be good! Why can't it ever be good?" Amy moaned.

"I'm sure it will be someday. Not today, though, by the look of it."

There was only one way to determine what had happened to the missing pair, and that was to investigate their disappearance. Since they'd last been seen in the kitchen, that was the logical place to start. Treading lightly, the Doctor crept across the living room and poked his head into the kitchen.

Molly and the angel were nowhere to be seen, but George's feet were sticking out from under the table. The Doctor madly hoped the rest of George was still attached to those feet. A quick duck under the table confirmed that yes, George and his feet had not been separated at the ankle.

George might have been whole, but he was also unmoving. The Doctor grabbed George by the ankles and hauled him out. The cramped space underneath the table was no place to run diagnostics. The kitchen floor, well-lit by the pleasant sunlight filtering in through the gaping hole in the wall, was much nicer.

The Doctor knelt down next to George and felt for a pulse. Before he could locate one, George moaned and his hand twitched. Unless George was now a zombie, the moan and twitch were positive signs of life.

"Can you hear me, George? George? What happened?"

"No, get 'way from me," George muttered, his hand flopping around in front of his face as though it was trying to dispel a swarm of flies.

"George, wake up and tell me what happened. Are you hurt? Did the angel do something to you?" The Doctor was quite sure it had. George hadn't just crawled under the table for fun.

"My head."

"_More_ head trauma? If you humans are always getting knocked about the head, you should evolve thicker skulls," the Doctor said. He dutifully pulled out his sonic screwdriver, fiddled with the setting, and scanned George's head.

After a quick examination of the readings, the Doctor said, "Might have a bit of a concussion, and you're definitely going to have a nasty bump. A big one. A big, swollen, bruised, painful one. You and Bob can compare injuries."

"What?" George asked. His eyes fluttered open and he stared up at the ceiling as though he'd never seen it before in his life.

"Whoever has the biggest lump on their gourd can take home a shiny trophy. I'm sure I've got one on the TARDIS."

"I…what?"

"Stop it. You're starting to sound like me."

"What happened?"

"I asked you first. Don't you dare tell me you don't remember! I will find a mind probe and so help me you will—"

George sat up so suddenly he startled the Doctor, who fell backwards onto his bum. "Molly!"

"Yes, Molly, do you know where she went?"

As though he hadn't just been pulled out, unconscious, from under the table, George sprung to his feet. He spun in a circle, taking in every inch of the kitchen. Whatever he was looking for, he obviously didn't find it, because he completed a second circle, this time moving slower and scrutinizing the room harder.

The Doctor reached a hand towards George. The man responded by grabbing the Doctor by the shoulders and shaking him so hard his teeth rattled in his head.

"Where is my wife?" George demanded.

"I don't know! That's why I was asking," the Doctor replied.

"She was…she was standing there. And then there was this horrendous noise, like a boulder falling down the stairs. And she, oh God, she turned towards it. And I…I blinked. I saw her back for just a second, and then I blinked."

George released the Doctor and staggered away from him. One look and the Doctor knew George would soon be meeting the floor again. The color had drained from the man's face—the Doctor reckoned he'd seen corpses with pinker cheeks—and the strength in George's legs had apparently been likewise funneled from his body. George stumbled backwards, tried to steady himself on the counter, and ended up sliding down until he sat upon the floor in ashen misery.

"The angel took her. It must have. What's it going to do to her?" George covered his eyes with his hand.

Humans had a knack for doing all sorts of stupid, self-destructive things, and asking questions they _really_ didn't want to know the answers to was just one more item on the list. George knew—or had to have some strong inkling of—what the angel would do, or already had done, to his wife. The bloody statue had torn a hole through the wall, for pity's sake! Whatever deep masochism drove humans to their awful, painful questions, the Doctor wished they'd never developed it.

"George…" The Doctor trailed off.

"Is Molly dead?"

The Doctor sighed. There weren't many ways to dance around the answer. Yes, no, maybe. That was it. No would be empty, and probably false. Yes would crush George. Maybe had unpredictable results. George could be filled with hope and energy to recover Molly and stop the angel, or the uncertainty could break him.

"I don't know. It's likely, but I can't say for sure."

George burst into tears. The Doctor almost felt like doing the same.

"I don't know definitively, but I'll find out if it's the last thing I ever do," the Doctor vowed.

Unsurprisingly, George wasn't comforted by the Doctor's promise. He continued to sob. The Doctor, as much as he wanted to ensure the angel wasn't off killing anyone or getting its picture taken, needed to do something for the weeping man first.

The Doctor crouched down in front of George. There was no indication the man even noticed the Doctor's presence; he continued to cry and kept his eyes firmly covered.

"George, I know how you feel. I know that all you want to do is curl up until you're so small that you disappear because it hurts so horribly and you're so afraid. But you can't do it, not now. It isn't going to help the Earth, and it isn't going to help Molly."

For a few seconds there was no change in George's demeanor. Then he removed his hand from his eyes and gazed at the Doctor.

His voice choked, George said, "What do you want me to do? I'll do anything for Molly."

"That's the kind of attitude we need. We'll put it to good use, as soon as I think of a plan," the Doctor replied.

"Molly hasn't got time!"

"Molly's going to have to make time! In case you've never looked out the window, it's a big world out there. We can't expect the angel to be standing in the middle of the street. It's got countless places to hide, and countless traps to set for us. Dying is going to help Molly even less than crying in the corner," the Doctor said.

Arguing with the Doctor was useless, and would only consume more precious time. While he waited, frustrated and useless, George wiped the tears from his eyes. He was not ashamed of crying—anyone who didn't cry when their spouse was abducted by living, murderous statues had to be heartless—but he doubted pitiful sobbing would stimulate the Doctor's brain. George always found it hard to even remember what he was supposed to be buying when a kid in the shop was howling for sweets, and he supposed the same principle applied to thinking up rescue plans.

"What would I do if I was the angel? Where would I go? Someplace with people, but not very many. Too many eyes and I'd never move, too few and I wouldn't have any food. Or new angels. Someplace quiet, with privacy. Someplace I could hide. Any ideas, George?" the Doctor asked. "You know the area better than I do."

George shook his head. He'd run through a list of nearby locations, and hadn't thought of any that fit the parameters. The neighborhood was mainly smaller houses, none vacant, and a gaping hole in the wall would not go unnoticed. A nearby park would be swarmed with children set loose on summer holiday. There was no way a pack of kids would fail to find the angel and, in all likelihood, climb all over it.

"Nothing? No quiet places anywhere?"

"I can't think of one quiet, secluded place. Even the park's got Wi-Fi now; people are always there, under the trees with their computers," George said. "It's quite nice, actually. Molly likes to…"

This was getting them nowhere. With Molly gone to fates unknown, George couldn't focus on anything but her. The Doctor didn't have time to locate a detailed map and scour every centimeter of it for possible weeping angel habitats. He needed some help, here. Maybe Bob would know. He was a rule-shirking boy, and rule-shirking boys always knew the best spots to hide.

The Doctor opened his mouth to call Bob but was interrupted by a sudden ringing. It sounded like a telephone and it was coming from the living room. Neither Bob nor Amy rushed to pick it up, which pleased the Doctor. They had learned to tune out distractions, even ones as instinctual as a ringing phone.

"I'll get it, I suppose. Could be Molly," George said. The chuckle he attempted to make died in his throat and emerged as a pitiful sob.

George left the Doctor to plan in the kitchen. He crossed into the living room, cast a baleful glare at the facedown angel lying on the floor, and headed for phone. It was sitting off its charging cradle. George hadn't replaced it from before, when he'd attempted to phone the police.

George picked up the phone and looked at the incoming call data. If it was nobody important—which would be basically anyone not Molly at that point—he would leave it.

The caller was identified as the enigmatic _Unknown_. There was no incoming phone number beneath the name. That was strange. George couldn't ever recall the phone failing to display a caller's number. Maybe it was blocked for some reason.

Deciding it might be important, George brought the phone up to his ear.

"Hello?"

"George. George, you've got to come and see this."

"_Molly_!"

* * *

TBC


	11. It's Not Magical

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

George's voice, frantic and ecstatic, brought the Doctor at a full run. He skidded into the room and rushed to George's side. The man who had been curled up in exquisite misery not ten minutes ago was now grinning so broadly his face could hardly contain the smile. He had every reason in the universe to be happy, of course. His beloved wife, who the Doctor had all but declared dead, was talking to him on the telephone.

Only the Doctor wasn't sure it really was Molly on the other end of the connection. It was too unlikely. In a few minutes, she'd both managed to escape the angel _and_ find a telephone? Not unless she could put Houdini to shame.

"Can I talk to her?" the Doctor asked.

"And the angel's not there? Thank God. Just stay where you are, as long as you think it's safe. I'll be there in a tick."

George hadn't even heard the question. He was so wrapped up in his surprise miracle that the Doctor's tentative intrusion didn't register.

"I wouldn't do this if it wasn't important but-"

"Molly's alive! She escaped the angel, and she's waiting for me. Doctor, are you coming?" George, the phone still plastered to his ear, was already heading for the door.

The Doctor took a deep breath. He did not want to completely wreck George's life and send the man into a months-long period of mourning, but that seemed impossible to avoid.

"I don't think that was really Molly," the Doctor said.

George's manic grin stayed in place, though it faltered for the briefest moment. "Of course it was. You think I wouldn't recognize my own wife's voice? I've only been hearing it for six years."

"I…just let me have the phone."

"No."

"But I can be sure. I just need to hear her voice."

"There's something the matter with you. I don't know what it is, but it's serious. My wife, my _Molly,_ almost died and now she needs me. You, for whatever reason, don't believe me!" The frenetic happiness had vanished from George's face, and was quickly being replaced with a look of deep hurt and offense.

The Doctor suddenly felt as though he was walking on ice so thin he could hear it crack beneath his feet with each step. One wrong word, and he suspected George would punch him and then storm from the house. Which would, if the Doctor was correct, leave him with a bloodied nose or lip and leave George in the clutches of not one, but two, expectant angels. He had to diffuse the situation before it turned unsalvageable.

"Weeping angels are crafty. They can do this trick with a person's voice."

"What kind of trick?"

"They use the voice to lure other people in."

"I don't understand. They're glorified rocks! How do they get someone's voice? A magic stone tape recorder?"

"They…ah…you're not going to like this. They kill the person and-"

The Doctor found himself sprawled out on the floor, starbursts that reminded him of an exploding TARDIS mottling his vision. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten there, where he'd been before becoming best mates with the carpet, or why he was being treated to his own little marvelous fireworks display. He supposed finding out would be a good idea, but he couldn't quite remember how his arms or legs worked, either.

While he was trying to figure out how a thought translated to motion, a funny, blurry, red-haired Aplan appeared above him. Blimey, he hadn't seen Aplans in ages. Never thought he'd see one again, with them being extinct. But the two heads and the fiery hair gave it away. There were plenty of gingers—though the shade and location of the hair differed greatly—across the universe, and two heads weren't unheard of, either. But the combination was one of a kind.

Out of respect for the last poor ginger Aplan in the entire universe, the Doctor tried to speak to it in its native tongue. The Aplan drew back. Maybe he'd misspoken and offended it. The word for _friend_ was ridiculously close to the word for _toilet-scrubber_.

"Doctor? If he gave you brain damage, I'm going to crash-land the TARDIS onto his head. I don't care if I can't fly it; I'll find a way."

That didn't sound like an Aplan. That sounded like a worried, furious Amy Pond. When had she grown a second head?

The Doctor blinked a few times and the apparition floating above him lost a head but gained considerable clarity. It was, in fact, not the last living native of Alfava Metraxis. Just wonderful, single-headed Amy.

"Hello! Thought you were an Aplan for a bit. But you're not," the Doctor said.

"An Aplan? One of those things with the two heads? Just how hard did he punch you?" Amy asked.

"So that's what happened? Why did he punch me?"

"Because you told him a weeping angel killed his wife."

"Yes, I remember now. Amy, the phone! Where is it? I need it!" The Doctor sat bolt upright, apparently none the worse for wear and began to hunt for the phone.

George, in his haste, had dropped the phone on the floor and left it. Amy, not wanting the Doctor up and about after being so expertly KO'd, fetched the phone. She placed it in the Doctor's waiting hand.

"Still there?" the Doctor asked, pressing the phone to his ear.

The line remained silent for no more than a second. Then a voice, without a doubt Molly's, spoke to the Time Lord.

"Yes, Doctor."

No hint of lingering fear, no breathless exhilaration at just having escaped one of the universe's finest killers. Hardly any emotion at all, in fact. No human—or any other species capable of feeling—would have been so calm after being abducted from her home by a weeping angel.

"And how did you escape the angel? Are you somehow faster than the Centipede People of Scolopendra? Or did you apparate?" Under ordinary circumstances, a Harry Potter joke would have elicited a smile or chuckle from everyone in the room. As things stood, not even Bob could manage a grin.

"I didn't-"

"What's that? You _didn't _escape the angel? It murdered you and hijacked your voice so it could lure George to a horrifying, undeserved fate? Isn't that fascinating?"

Not bothering to wait for a reply—knowing it would only be a cruel comeback about how it was all his fault, he was rubbish at protecting people, Molly had died alone and in pain, etcetera into eternity—the Doctor ended the call. Almost unconsciously, he then slipped the phone into his pocket.

"Amy, I can't trust my own legs. See if you can stop George before he leaves," the Doctor said.

"Want me to jump on the hood again?" she asked.

"If it comes down to it, knock him out with a rock. Then he can join the head trauma club."

Amy nodded and ran towards the front door. She threw it open at the exact moment the squeal of tires struggling to keep the road pierced the air. George had just driven off to meet his death at half the speed of sound.

Defeated, Amy stepped back inside a few seconds later. "He was gone before I could do anything. Maybe he'll be pulled over by the police. And dragged to the nearest hospital when he tells them stone angels took his wife."

"Stone angels are gonna take me too in a second! Somebody else look at it before my eyes explode!" Bob drew the Doctor and Amy's attention back to the angel in the room.

Amy and the Doctor watched the angel while Bob blinked the pain from his eyes. He was the unchallenged champion of staring, but even his almighty eyes needed occasional relief. After a few blinks, his eyes stopped feeling as though they'd been dipped in salt and marinated in lemon juice. Once his eyes were soothed, he turned them back on the angel.

"What are we going to do about George? We aren't going to abandon him, are we?" Amy asked.

"We can't forget about him. We've got to save _somebody_, even if we're too late for Mrs. Mason. Are we too late for her?" Bob said.

The Doctor drew in a deep breath and released it as a sigh. "Yes, Bob, I believe we are. That voice on the phone was hers…but she's gone."

"And there's no way to bring her back?"

"None. Tell me she's part Dalek pig-slave, and maybe I could fix her. But once you're stone, there's nothing to be done about it," the Doctor said.

The news that Molly was, and forever would be, a murderous chunk of stone didn't lift any spirits. It did, however, serve as a powerful motivator. The angels had clearly won the first round, and nobody wanted to see them take the whole game.

"If there's any hope for George—and I think there still may be some—we've got to figure out where he's going. Bob, Brilliant Bob, where would you go if you were the angel? Think of somewhere quiet, with not very many people. A place even a stone monster could hide," the Doctor said.

Bob considered the weeping angel that was face down in front of him. Where in the world—asides from maybe a dark cave—could it go unnoticed? It was a human-sized statue, and those kinds of things tended to attract peoples' attention, even if the people were just tourists fascinated by the craftsmanship. Was there any place where statues were ignored?

"A cemetery! There's tons of statues in 'em, and not many people, and the people who are there are too busy with whoever carked it to notice a missing statue," Bob said.

"Yes, brilliant! Are there any cemeteries nearby?" the Doctor asked.

"There's one. It's old and I think they stopped burying new people there ages ago. It's more of an historic landmark than anything else."

"Old, and I bet it's just full of stone angels, isn't it? That's one thing I never got about people. You choose the absolute _worst_ creatures to romanticize. Your fairies? Hideous in reality. And angels watching over your eternal slumber? You're mad! If there's anything in the whole universe you want to be there when you die, it's an Ood," the Doctor said. "'Course because of Lovecraft, Ood are-"

Amy decided the Doctor had wandered far enough off track. "That's all very interesting, Doctor, but maybe you can save it for later."

"Thank you, Pond. Always there when my mouth runs away from my brain. This cemetery, where is it?"

"It's on Church Street, probably on account of the church."

"That's logical. And how far away is it?"

"Are you driving, or trespassing?"

Without pause, the Doctor replied, "Trespassing."

"Twenty-one gardens, four fences, one barmy dog, a flock of chickens, and an old bloke armed with a big stick. He's slow, but he can really chuck that stick."

"Magnificent."

Bob spelled out exactly which twenty-one gardens to run through, how to avoid getting gnawed on by the chronically enraged dog, and how far the old man could throw his weapon of choice. The Doctor listened carefully, preparing a mental map. He was sure to include all of Bob's warnings as side notes.

They were incredibly detailed directions, but they worried Amy. The Doctor had been knocked flat, and he had no business hopping over fences or fending off heavily-armed codgers. What was worse, the fences and codgers were the easy part. Even if he survived them, he still had the weeping angels to contend with.

"Doctor, are you in any shape to do all that?" Amy asked.

"Yeah, 'course I am. I haven't been eating _that_ many biscuits. And all that running we do, it's good for the hearts."

"I meant the bump on the head."

"Right. Not a problem."

"Being punched in the head's not a problem?"

"In this case, no. My brain's very well-protected. Cybermen'd have trouble getting to it."

"You're sure?"

"Not entirely. Haven't met many Cybermen that wanted to try, at least not in this regeneration. I don't really want to, truth be told. Conversion's incredibly painful. Lots of screaming and sawing involved."

Amy realized she would not be getting a straight answer anytime soon. Resigned, she dropped her questions. The Doctor, she knew, was resilient and had probably been bashed upside the head by worse than an office worker's fist. He would probably make it to the cemetery intact, though she hated the idea of him facing the angels with any sort of injury. She hated the idea of him facing the angels at all.

"Better get going, then. Should I say a rousing, tear-jerking good-bye, just in case?"

"No!" Amy and Bob shouted simultaneously.

"Okay. No it is."

The Doctor rose to his feet. He was grateful his legs supported him without any hint of collapse. That would have been mortifying, getting the plan all…planned…and then not being able to stand. He hopped up and down a bit to make sure he was ready to vault the fences, and was satisfied with the results. No weakness, no feelings of vertigo or dizziness, no blurry vision, and no real spike in the headache he'd done his best to ignore.

"If you don't come back, I'm going to drop the TARDIS on _your_ head!" Amy called as the Doctor made for the door.

Falling TARDIS, now that would hurt. Grinning at the threat, and the image of his beloved ship crushing him like he was the Wicked Witch of the East, the Doctor headed out the door. He took a moment to admire the pleasant weather—if he had to die, at least he wouldn't have to do it in the snow—and then began to run.

* * *

TBC

I go back to college in all of three days (bah) so the updates may slow down a bit. But they might not. I'm an English major, not a Time Lord, damn it!


	12. Lucky Eleven

Thanks for the reviews!

To Hush2.0: I am eternally sorry to make you wait. I swear I'm working on it. Once again, I'll ask for a week. If I fail, feel free to threaten me with whatever you'd like.

To Caitlin M: It's been years since I read A Hitchhiker's Guide, so if it is a reference, it came from my subconscious.

* * *

It had taken all of his wit and courage, plus an incredible run of good luck, to survive the man-eating dog, an uncharacteristically territorial flock of hens, and the equally defensive codger. The dog had nearly taken a bite out of his backside—a very large bite, as the dog had been as big as a pony—but the old man had been napping in the warm sunlight with his hefty stick across his lap. The only injury the Doctor had sustained had come courtesy of the chickens.

As he hauled himself over the last fence, and the last obstacle in his path, the Doctor reflected back on the chickens. He'd never seen chickens with such a violent streak. He'd barely set foot in the yard, and six of them, a blend of breeds, had attacked him. They'd gone after his legs with beaks and claws, and one had somehow managed to get its feathered head up his pant leg, where it had pecked him hard enough to draw blood. The injury was minor, but it was insulting.

"Bloody chickens. Just for that, I'm eating eggs for breakfast the rest of my life."

The Doctor dropped down on the other side of the fence and took a moment to catch his breath. He was good at running—if he hadn't been, he'd have been permanently dead centuries ago—but fence-hopping and shaking rage-infected chickens out of one's pants did take a toll on one's stamina. Unless he wanted to collapse on top of the angel, he needed a respite.

After taking a few deep breaths and making sure his twin hearts weren't going to quit on him, he decided it was high time to give his blood pressure another massive spike. He was really, really, _really_ looking forward to searching an old bone yard for two weeping angels, and the man one of them used to be married to.

The cemetery wasn't going to get any more appealing, and George's chances of dying horribly weren't going to decrease, either. The Doctor convinced his feet to get moving. They carried him across a narrow, badly-paved street, then across a thin strip of field. He stopped when he came to a waist-high stone wall. Beyond the wall lay the graveyard.

Before he hopped the wall, the Doctor decided to do a little reconnaissance. He scanned the area and was taken in by the quaint church that rested on a slight hill just beyond the cemetery. It really was a lovely bit of architecture. Surely centuries old, the church must have seen so much. So many weddings and funerals, so many generations of people. The Doctor wished he had time to admire it, explore it, get to know it better.

As marvelous and charming as the church was, the Doctor hadn't come here to sight-see. He'd come to rescue George, stop the angels from killing anyone else, and save the world. They were lofty goals, and if he wanted to achieve any of them, he'd better get started.

Taking his eyes off the church and focusing them on the graveyard, the Doctor looked for anything suspicious. He noted plenty of white, weathered stone and a massive yew tree that could have hidden an entire flock of weeping angels. This was not going to be easy.

The Doctor climbed over the stone wall and took another long look around the cemetery. This was the perfect habitat for the most cleverly disguised killer in the universe. There were stone carvings—many of them angels in various poses—everywhere the Doctor looked. Most were harmless, nothing more than horribly inaccurate portrayals done by moderately talented stonemasons. Two, hiding somewhere among the graves, were lethal.

Checking the individual statues would take ages, but the Doctor had no choice. It was either that, or turn his back on the graveyard and wait for something to sneak up behind him. He wasn't looking forward to being the freshest corpse in the cemetery, so he walked to the nearest winged figure and examined it.

The first angel was heavily eroded; it looked like the humanoid statues of decayed angels in the Maze of the Dead. The second angel, perched on a tombstone like a sparrow, was no larger than the Doctor's foot. The third, fourth, fifth, and sixth were likewise miniaturized, none of them standing more than two feet tall. The seventh had a halo. The eighth had long, flowing hair and a harp. The ninth was tiny and was carved into the face of a tombstone. The tenth had lost a wing sometime in the distant past.

The Doctor walked around the massive trunk of the gnarled yew, and found yet another angel. This one had not been worn down by decades of slow erosion. It was not some humanized cherub, playing a harp or any of that rubbish. It was also, unlike the rest of the statues, not standing watch over somebody's eternal resting place. It was removed from the surrounding graves, skulking alone in the shadow of the ancient yew.

"Got you," the Doctor said. "Wonderful hiding place, I'll give you that, but you're…George?"

George was so deathly still he could have passed for a weeping angel if he'd been a bit grayer and had a wingspan. Asides from the slow, steady cycle of inhalations and exhalations, there was no sign he was even alive. His eyes were unfocused; they looked like the vacant eyes of someone doped to the gills on potent painkillers.

"What's wrong with you? George!" the Doctor shouted, trying to snap the man out of his trance.

"I'm stone," George replied, his voice so quiet the Doctor had to strain to catch it.

"You're...stoned?" the Doctor asked.

"Stone."

"Oh, _stone_. Got it. When did you turn into a stone, George? You were a human last I saw you."

"Molly did it." George looked like an amateur ventriloquist when he spoke. His lips barely moved at all.

The Doctor looked away from George and back to the angel. Against his better judgment, he looked the angel directly in the eyes, though only for a second. Probably not long enough for it to climb in the door to his soul. Probably.

"George, you haven't been staring at the angel's eyes the whole time, have you?"

"Yes."

If he'd still had his glorious, prestigious hair, he'd have gathered two handfuls of it and screamed. Since most of his hair was either scattered in the hallway or clutched in a weeping angel's fist, he just gritted his teeth and moaned loudly.

"Stop it! Look somewhere else! Anywhere else! Look at my bum for all I care!" the Doctor said. There was one phrase he hoped to never, even if he lived as long as the Face of Boe, ever repeat again.

"It's alright. Molly told me to do it, told me we could be together again."

"That thing is not your wife! It's an ugly piece of rock that talks like her! She's dead, and I'm so sorry, but she is. And if you don't stop looking at its eyes, you're going to die, too. If you turn into an angel, you will not be George anymore. You will be Angel George, and your life will consist of killing people and doing a spot-on impersonation of an Easter Island head whenever someone looks at you. That is no way to live."

It was a marvelous argument, full of both logos and pathos. Any normal person would have been swayed. George, though, was far from normal. He was a man who, in the span of one day, had been introduced to killer aliens from the early days of the universe, had lost his wife to said aliens, and now had been turned to stone, at least in his mind, by his fossilized dead wife.

"If you won't look away, I'll help you," the Doctor said.

He then proceeded to draw back his foot and kick George in the shin. Pain could shatter the illusions angels instilled in their victims, as the Doctor had learned by biting Amy on a planet far, far away. Just as the trick had worked there and then, it worked in the here and now.

George yelped and clutched his injured leg. The Doctor had not held back, and George, always assuming he lived, would develop quite the bruise on his shin. That was an infinitesimal price to pay, in the Doctor's opinion, for snapping him out of his self-destructive funk.

"You're not stone, now prove it and run!" The Doctor grabbed George by the hand and yanked him.

They had made it all of eight steps when George locked his feet and became an anchor. The Doctor's forward momentum managed to drag George a little farther, but the resisting weight soon stopped him. In something growing dangerously close to a panic, the Doctor whirled around to confront George.

"I am not going with you. That _thing_, as you put it, is still Molly enough for me. She knows who I am. She remembers me."

"We haven't got time for this now. I'll explain it all, I swear I will, but not until we're safe. The angel's going to kill us if we stay here. You aren't fit to make rational choices, so you're coming with me," the Doctor replied.

"Don't you dare tell me what I'm fit to do! I'll knock ten head right off your bleeding shoulders!"

The Doctor froze. "What did you just say?"

"I'll knock the head right off your bleeding shoulders, and I will. Now let go of my hand."

"_The _head, you're sure? Not _ten_ head?"

"Ten head? That doesn't make sense. Stop being an idiot and let me go."

The Doctor released George's hand. The feeling of horror that sat nestled like an alien embryo in his chest constricted his heart. Ten. The. Only a few minor differences in spelling, but it could potentially be the difference between the sun being extinguished or it shining another five billion years.

"How about a compromise? See the church on the hill? Wait, don't look! Keep your eyes on the angel. It's up there, alright? And it's practically a fortress. Just come with me, and let's talk about this," the Doctor suggested.

"There's nothing to talk about, Doctor. The angel is nine the closest thing I have to a wife. I am not abandoning her, and she is not abandoning me."

"Nine. The angel is nine."

"What is it with you and numbers?" George demanded.

"Close your eyes, George, or you are going to die."

"Bollocks."

"Do it. There's an angel in your mind, and you're feeding it, nurturing it."

George smiled wryly. "Fine by me."

"It's not! Molly died quickly. Broken neck, most likely, over and done with in a flash. But this will not be pleasant. Not for me to watch, but especially not for you to experience."

"If you tell me she's dead one more time, I will eight you."

"Ten, nine, eight. A countdown. Close your eyes before it gets any lower. I need time. Time to figure out how to save you, you stupid ape." Stupid ape, there was a classic!

Some remaining specks of reason and the never-to-be-underestimated survival instinct kicked in. George closed his eyes. In doing so, he stopped looking at Angel Molly, who was no more than seven meters behind them. The Doctor was now faced with the impossible and overwhelming burden of keeping his eyes on the angel and somehow removing the fledgling angel from George's mind.

"We've got to run, George, and run very fast. I'll guide you. Don't worry about falling. Just run when I say go. Go!"

The Time Lord took off, again dragging George behind me. George was not light on his feet. The Doctor discovered this when George tripped over not a tombstone, but his own shoelace. He fell flat in the grass, bringing the Doctor down with him.

Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant. He'd survived the Time War, paradoxes, possession by unknown entities, torture, Daleks, androids, bombings, Cybermen, the Master, the Master's music and dancing, Donna's slaps, and a whole slew of other events that would have killed anyone else. All that surviving amounted to nothing. He was going to meet his ultimate fate because of an untied shoelace.

_Come on, then. Get it over with so I don't have to live with the shame_, the Doctor thought as he lay sprawled out in the grass.

The angel did not pounce of them, though they were helpless. The Doctor didn't know what held it back, but he didn't intend to give it a second chance. He clambered to his feet and looked for the weeping angel. It had not moved from its original location.

"It's Molly enough not to kill us. I told you, I did. I love her, seven loves me and you're a twat."

"Seven doesn't love you, I'm not a twat, and close your eyes. You're wasting your seconds."

"I'm through listening to your rubbish. 'Oh, she's not your wife, she's going to slaughter us all.' Right, that's what happened." George scoffed at the Doctor's grievous errors.

"The angel's not holding back out of love. They can't love. It's holding back...ah. I know why."

George shook his head in disbelief. "No you don't. You're an idiot, that's all."

"It's holding back because you've got a developing angel in your mind. It's not strong enough to burst out of you and take its own form yet. Killing you kills it. And me? It's keeping me around for fun."

"You're not any fun, Doctor," George muttered.

"To you, no, I'm not. To them, I must be a barrel of laughs. And it'll get even better. Once you've given birth to a human-sized block of stone—imagine how _that's_ going to feel—I'll be next. Maybe you'll be the one to do it. Yeah, probably. First kill and all that. Baptism by blood."

"I would never kill someone! Not even you!"

The Doctor said, "Of course you wouldn't. But what you haven't grasped, what I can't make you comprehend, is that you stop being you. You stop thinking like a human, you stop having morality or love or any of the good stuff humans have. You think like a weeping angel, like the ultimate predator you are."

George couldn't believe it. Or rather, he wished more fervently than he'd ever wished for anything in his life that is wasn't true. Because if the Doctor was right, Molly was gone forever. To make the stabbing pain of that loss even worse, a cheap imposter had used her voice to lure her husband to his death.

"Close your eyes, George. Please, trust me and do it."

Closing his eyes would mean he'd given up on Molly. It would mean he believed the Doctor over the disembodied voice of his wife.

"Alright."

George closed his eyes and the Doctor felt slightly better about the situation. Yes, Angel Molly and her friend—who could be hiding anywhere—were still out there. Yes, the angel in George's mind wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. Yes, Bob and Amy were still on their own and the Doctor had no idea what they were doing about their angel.

And no, he didn't have the faintest idea about how to solve any of those problems.

* * *

TBC

Updates, meh, who the hell knows. I've given up on trying to predict my schedule.


	13. The Doctor Goes to Church

I love snow days. Instead of furthering my education, I'm allowed to write _this. _Yay for super-massive winter weather events.

Thanks for the reviews, everyone!

* * *

Two people trapped in a room together will, unless one or both is deaf or mute, make conversation with each other if left alone long enough. For Bob and Amy, "long enough" constituted five seconds. Almost as soon as the Doctor was out the door, Bob was asking questions and Amy was only too happy to answer them. They did make the miserable situation much more bearable.

"He's an alien, isn't he?" Bob asked.

"The Doctor? Oh yes. Plenty alien," Amy said.

"But he looks like us. Is he just disguised so his tentacles and slime won't make us puke, or does he really look like a person?"

Amy grinned as she remembered the Doctor's standard reply to any accusation he looked like a human.

"He always says 'I don't look human, you look Time Lord'. His species evolved first," Amy said.

"Time Lord? That's what he is? How is that different from us?"

"Well, they don't make medical books on Time Lords, so I don't know everything about his anatomy. Or very much at all, really. But I do know he's got two hearts."

"Really? That's wicked! What about his other organs? Does he have two of everything?"

Amy couldn't be sure, but she doubted it. The Doctor was a slim fellow, and there just didn't seem to be enough room inside him for a pair of intestines, stomachs, and all the rest. Amy relayed this theory to Bob, who agreed.

"Does every Time Lord dress like that? With the bowties and all, or is he weird on his home planet, too?" Bob asked.

Amy wished they could have stayed on the fun, speculative topics. That would have been so much more pleasant. Watching the weeping angel was difficult enough without bringing the Doctor's dead world into the picture.

"There…there aren't any more Time Lords. He's the last one."

Bob grew somber and was silent. Doctor Bowtie was the only one of his species left in the entire universe? That was the most depressing thing Bob had ever heard.

"What happened to them?" he asked.

"There was a war. The biggest one ever, I think, and they all died. The Doctor was the only survivor."

"So if he dies, the whole lot of them will be extinct?"

"One minus one is zero." There was no arguing with the cruel finality of simple math.

"He won't die, then. He _can't_."

Amy nodded and tried her best to assure Bob that he was right. Of course the Doctor would be alright. He was the Doctor! In no time at all, he and George would waltz—maybe not waltz, out of respect for Molly—into the room. Everything would be fine.

* * *

They were doomed. Ten fruitless minutes of straining his brain, of throwing out ideas and having them boomerang around and smack him, of praying for some kind of plan to magically descend from the heavens, had left the Doctor with nothing. Nothing except a stronger headache, that was. Before, he'd been able to ignore the steady throb; now it felt like a miniature demolitions crew was ready to blow out a sizeable piece of his skull.

"Doctor?" George asked. He'd been sitting in the grass, quiet, for the past ten minutes. Now he wanted to know what the next plan of action was.

"I don't have anything yet. Keep your eyes closed. When I have an idea, you'll be the first to know."

"The ground's a bit damp."

"Is it? I'm terribly sorry to hear that! Next time you consider staring into the eyes of a weeping angel, you'll remember yesterday's rain, won't you?"

George wisely shut his mouth.

The Doctor looked away from the angel—he'd been blinking plenty and it hadn't so much as twitched a finger—and over at George. The man's head was down and occasionally he'd wipe at his eyes and nose in an attempt to hide the fact he'd been crying. He looked so wretched that the Doctor took pity on him.

"Here, sit on this." The Doctor removed his tweed jacket and handed it to George.

"No. I deserve to be wet."

"I don't have time for martyrs, George. Take the jacket."

George groped for the jacket and the Doctor pressed it into his hands. He folded it and created a barrier between his backside and the wet ground.

"Thank you," George said.

"Thank me when I find a way to get the angel out of your mind."

The Doctor went back to thinking. He desperately recalled the madman's guide to the weeping angels. Nothing from the book seemed remotely useful or pertinent. Dreams no longer need us. Time of angels. The eyes are the doors to the soul. Wonderful. Good for them. Right on you, eyes.

"Doors. Doors open. Doors close. Doors swing open and closed. Some doors revolve. You can walk through a door, but you can also walk back out. Oh, this is going somewhere. This is a good train of thought!" The Doctor felt the tiny glimmer of hope he'd all-but-abandoned spark into brand new life.

"Doors, George! Anything you've got on doors, throw it out!"

George bit his lip in consideration. A few ideas—all of them surely nonsense—sprung to mind. He offered them with some reluctance.

"You can lock a door. You can lock yourself outside. Doors can be left ajar. You can slam a door on your hand. Doors let in drafts. Uh, you can go leave one place and walk through the door into another. If-"

"That's it! You can leave your house, walk across the street, and enter someone else's house! As long as both doors are open, you can do that anywhere. That's the answer, George. Brilliant! I'm going to call you Genius George from now on!" The manic energy radiating off the Doctor was so strong George would swear he could feel it like heat against his skin.

"I don't get it. What doors are we talking about?"

"The metaphorical ones."

George had never been so confused in his whole life. Not even during his most grueling math lessons, when equations and fractions seemed to have been written in Sanskrit.

"The angel came into your head using your eyes as a door. It's going to go out the same way," the Doctor explained.

"But where's it going to go?"

"Into my mind."

"_What_?" George's voice reached a shrillness neither he nor the Doctor thought possible.

The plan did sound completely mad, the Doctor was willing to concede that point. There was an underlying logic that George wasn't grasping, though. It wasn't George's fault the logic escaped him; he wasn't a Time Lord and didn't understand the wonderful machinations of a Time Lord's mind.

"I know what it sounds like, but I can explain. You're a human with no mental defenses. Zip, zero, _nada_. The angel can muck around in your head all it wants and you can't do anything except cut off its food supply temporarily. My mind's much more protected."

"Then why would it leave my head for yours? If I'm such an easy victim, it's got every reason to stay."

"Under normal circumstances, yes. But what would you do if your house was on fire?"

"You're going to set me on fire?" George screamed.

Before the Doctor could respond, George struggled to his feet. Ignoring the Time Lord's desperate pleas to sit back down before he cracked his head off a tombstone, he stumbled away. He risked opening his eyes long enough to determine a path, then closed them again and went blundering on his way.

"Stop! The fire's as metaphorical as the doors. I don't plan to set you on fire, I promise!" the Doctor said. When George refused to halt, the Doctor grabbed his now wet jacket and pursued the fleeing man.

"But you are planning to do something horrible to me."

"I never said that."

"You're going to make me uninhabitable to the angel. If you're not going to burn me, you're going to do something else bloody awful and I want no part of it."

"You were ready to turn into a weeping angel fifteen minutes ago, but now you're running away from some imaginary pain that's never going to even happen? George, stop! I mean it, stop! You're headed right for a…never mind."

George had failed to notice, in the brief time he'd opened his eyes, a small stone marker that had long ago lost its inscription to time and weather. He tripped over the innocuous headstone and landed, once again, face down in the grass. The Doctor rolled his eyes and helped the poor man to his feet.

"Do you plan to stop being thick anytime this century?" the Doctor asked, exasperated.

"That depends. Do you plan on somehow repairing my life?" George retorted.

"I plan on saving your life, if you'd stop doing everything in your power to stop me doing it. Eh, I'm usually more eloquent," the Doctor said. "Angels must have my tongue. Oh well, better my tongue than my phone box."

This was even worse than the rubbish about metaphysical doors and fire. George's brain felt like it was facing imminent and catastrophic explosion, and there wasn't much more he could handle. If the Doctor planned to gibber about some phone box—which was probably as metaphysical as everything else he loved to ramble on about—George expected a sizable mushroom cloud to envelop his head within the coming minutes.

Before George's head could be reduced to a radioactive crater, the Doctor noticed the stress the man was under. The Time Lord turned off all superfluous yapping, and focused on what was directly in front of him. He needed to get blind, confused, angel-afflicted George somewhere protected and devoid of pitfalls.

"Saving your life, right. We're going to church, George," the Doctor said.

"Huh?"

"The little church on the hill. We're going there. It's much safer than open ground, and it'll offer marginal protection against the angels. It might hold them off for a minute or more if they're determined to get us. They built things sturdier in the old days."

"Then what?"

"Then I get the angel out of your mind in a way that will involve little to no pain on your part."

"How are you going to do that?"

"I'll explain once we've got a nice solid wall between us and the angels. Here, I'll be your official guide Doctor." The Doctor took hold of George's arm and led him through the cemetery.

The weeping angel formerly known as Molly was done playing the part of quiet, harmless sentry. As the Doctor guided George towards the church, the angel pursued them. Moving with unfathomable speed, it took great pleasure in running circles around George and the Doctor.

The Doctor knew the angel was following him, and he didn't like it. There was nothing to be done about it—he doubted telling it to bugger off would be effective—so he resolutely kept pulling George along. George was as clumsy as ever, bumping his shins off of every stone monument the Doctor tried to steer him clear of, and progress was painfully slow.

The feeling of being watched, of being hunted like a fox by hounds, increased as they neared the church. As they approached the wall surrounding the cemetery, the Doctor realized the angel had stepped up its game. It made no attempt to hide its location. As it raced around behind its helpless prey, the weeping angel utilized its surroundings to create an atmosphere of dread. It scraped its claws along headstones, defacing the monuments and making ungodly sounds.

"What's it doing that for?" George asked as the rasp of stone on stone made his skin crawl.

"It wants to scare us," the Doctor replied.

"It's working."

"I know."

They reached the low wall and the Doctor pulled George to a halt. Climbing it hadn't been a problem before, but the Doctor hadn't had a blind man in tow then. George, being born not with two left feet but with two feet on backwards and upside down, could probably manage to break his leg climbing the rock partition.

"We're going over the wall," the Doctor said.

"Why don't we just use the gate? That's how I got in."

"Gate?" The Doctor spotted said gate a bit farther down the wall. "We could do that."

George hadn't bothered to shut the wrought iron gate when he'd entered the cemetery. Upon leaving, the Doctor decided to remedy the situation. He closed the gate and then took a moment to use his sonic screwdriver on it. The locked gate certainly wouldn't repel the angels, or any human determined to visit, but it would hopefully deter anyone who just wanted to sightsee.

The Doctor led George to the front doors of the church. Like the rest of the church, the doors were solid despite their age. The Doctor pushed them inward and they didn't budge.

"Locked. Not a problem." The Doctor pressed his screwdriver against the keyhole. A few seconds of buzzing and the lock disengaged.

"Let's go, George. It might be a bit musty but mustiness gives a place character. A lot of wonderful places happen to smell like an attic."

Once George was inside, the Doctor closed and relocked the doors. The Doctor threw his shoulder into the doors to test them, and they held firm. Satisfied the ancient wood would repel the angels for a short amount of time, the Doctor turned to the interior of the church.

"We're safe now, Doctor. What're you going to do about my problem?" George asked.

"Don't assume we're safe, George. Never, ever assume that when weeping angels are involved."

"Safe or not-"

"Not."

"As I was saying, safe or not, we're in the church. So what's the bleeding plan?"

The Doctor was about to explain the bleeding plan when something heavy thudded against the roof. He immediately looked up and got two eyefuls of dust. He shook his head and blinked rapidly to clear his vision.

"I think the angels want to hear the plan, too, but I'd rather they didn't. George, I'm afraid we've got to act now."

* * *

TBC


	14. Doors to the Soul

This took a bit longer than expected. Sorry! Blame procrastination.

Thanks for the reviews.

* * *

George hated being blind. He supposed most blind people hated their condition, but he doubted if any other blind person in all of history had ever been forced to maintain their sightless state while murderous statues thudded above them and bizarre men in bowties dragged them around an old church.

"Let's see. No, not here, too near the window. I don't think the angels can squeeze through, but their arms certainly could. What about there? I think that's a good spot."

George was pulled along to points unknown. He'd behaved himself very well and hadn't opened his eyes, so he had no idea what the interior of the church looked like. That also meant he had no idea what spot the Doctor was leading him to, or where, in correlation to anything else, that spot was.

The Doctor abruptly stopped and let go of George's arm. George supposed they had reached whatever spot had struck the Doctor's fancy.

"I need you to lie on the floor," the Doctor said.

"Why in the bloody hell would I ever do that?"

"Because there's nearly a one-hundred percent chance one or both of us will end up there anyway. This way we're spared the fall."

"I'm not comfortable with whatever you're planning."

For the second time that day, the Doctor's jacket was sacrificed in the name of George's comfort. The Doctor spread his damp coat on the floor and invited George to try it out. George felt the need to decline.

"You're making an already incredibly bad situation even worse. You might want to stop, unless you want to die," the Doctor recommended.

"I don't want to die, but I don't want to get down on the floor and have you hover over me. I'll have no idea what you're doing. I'm forcibly blind, in case you forgot," George said, pointing at his eyes.

"Do you ever want to open your eyes without worry about a weeping angel killing you? Of course you do! So get on the floor."

"I still—"

"Floor."

"Will you at least—"

"Flo-or."

"Don't start—"

"Mr. Floor wants to be your friend, George. Why don't you give him a big hug?"

If only to avoid the Doctor' ridiculousness, George reluctantly lowered himself to the ground. He found the Doctor's jacket did less than nothing to make the floor any more pleasant. It was still hard, cold, and sure to leave him with a stiff back if he was forced to recline on it for very long.

The Doctor crouched down next to George. He was reluctant, for a plethora of reasons, to initiate his plan. There were hundreds of ways it could fail—and any failure was practically guaranteed to be catastrophic—and only a miniscule number of ways it could succeed. Even when placed against the odds for his usual plans, this plan was particularly dangerous.

"Is this going to work, or am I going to spend the rest of my life as a potato?" George asked.

"There is absolutely no chance of you literally turning into a potato. Well, the chance is so small I'd need about fifty zeros to properly illustrate it. Of course if you're talking a figurative potato, the chances are slightly higher."

"How much higher is _slightly_?"

"We don't have time for math! Math is for when weeping angels aren't trying to murder you."

George was no fan of numbers, but he felt that he was entitled to know the probability of death or brain damage. Any doctor, even one who called himself _the_ Doctor, had a responsibility to inform his patient about the prognosis. Likewise, no medical doctor who enjoyed his license would ever refuse to describe a patient's treatment.

"You're planning to muck about in my head—I don't know how—and I want to know the risks. You can either explain yourself or you can piss off."

"My conscience won't let me do the latter. So here's the former. There's a risk it won't work at all, in which case you're getting your wings. Something could happen to your brain. Almost _anything_ could happen to your brain, really. I don't know, I've never done this before. I suppose the same thing could apply to my brain," the Doctor said.

"I don't think I want to do this," George said. He tried to sit up.

The Doctor pressed a hand to George's shoulder and pushed him back down.

"This isn't about only you. As long as the angel's in your mind, you're a potential threat to the planet. I won't risk the Earth's safety."

"Blind or not, I can punch you at this distance," George threatened. He attempted to sit up again.

"I didn't want to have to do this," the Doctor said sadly.

Before George could form a fist, he felt something press against his temple. He'd never been held at gunpoint before, but he'd seen enough muggings and assaults on the telly to know the best course of action. He stopped all resistance and prayed either the police or Batman showed up before long.

The Doctor had never been one for guns, and if he had been incapable of shooting the Master, he couldn't shoot a frightened human. What he'd pressed to George's head was not a gun, but the far less deadly sonic screwdriver. George didn't need to know about the Doctor's aversion to firearms, however, and neither did the fiendish angel that had taken up residence in his mind. If they both assumed their lives were in immediate danger, they'd both be more willing to cooperate.

"Not to be neglectful or anything, George, but I've got to talk to the angel for a bit. You're free to listen, of course, but please don't interrupt."

"Talk to it! How are you going to talk to it? It's inside my head!" George cried.

"It sees through your eyes and hears through your ears. Now shut up."

George was at an impasse. Some of the movies and television programs advised talking to the crazed gunman, in the hope he'd come to his senses and drop his weapon. Others admonished this idea, and suggested anyone trying to talk his way out of a gunman's grasp was as good as dead. Considering how the Doctor acted, George decided there was no way anything short of medication was going to restore his senses. He chose silence.

"Thanks, George. The weeping angel in George's brain, I'm addressing you directly. So pay attention if you want to live," the Doctor said. He sounded perfectly threatening, if he dared say so himself.

"I don't care how comfortable you are in there, up in George's brain, you're not staying. You're being evicted, and I am one heartless landlord. Alright, that's a lie. I've got two hearts. And I'm also prone to ramble. Deal with it." His threat-level dropped a few notches.

"I know you've figured out enough about your host's anatomy to know he can't survive without his brain. And you need his brain in one piece. You're in the same boat, and I'll blast it out of the water if you force me to." The threat-levels reclaimed their past glory.

The angel had no way of responding, so the Doctor could only hope his message was being successfully received. He pushed onward with the assumption George's parasite was listening intently, and hadn't stuffed its stone fingers into its ears.

"Your only chance is to find someplace else to lodge. Luckily, there are other rooms to rent. If you know what's good for you—and I'm sure you do, your species is clever—you'll take up new residence."

Hopefully, the angel was packing its bags and making arrangements with the nearest moving company. The Doctor allowed himself a little grin at the image. He was about to undertake something incredibly dangerous, untested, and potentially lethal. It was good to know, even under those most dreadful of circumstances, he could still produce happy thoughts.

"George, I'm talking to you now. You're going to open your eyes when I tell you, and you're going to stare at what is directly in front of you. No matter how creepy it may be, you're not going to blink. You're going to keep staring until I tell you otherwise. Understand?" the Doctor asked.

"What am I going to stare at?"

"Me! Isn't that a pleasant surprise?"

No, it wasn't. Not even remotely.

"If the angel does what I want, it will walk out through your open door, and walk in through mine. You'll be certified, one-hundred percent weeping angel free. You can even get an inspection sticker if you want," the Doctor said.

"I don't want a bloody sticker! I want to know how that helps. The angel's still alive, you haven't killed it, you've just invited it in for tea," George protested.

"It won't be dead, but neither will you. Now close your mouth and open your eyes."

Arguing with the Doctor was like trying to reason with a brick wall. George wasn't going to waste his time with useless endeavors. Praying the madman knew what he was doing—even if it was obvious he didn't—George took a deep breath and opened his eyes.

He found a comically wide pair of green eyes staring down at him. The Doctor's face was scant centimeters above George's and the man was not happy with the arrangement. Such proximity would have been awkward in any situation with any relative stranger. When the stranger reeked of cooking oil and his nostrils kept flaring in the most bizarre fashion, the cramped staring contest transcended awkward and became nigh unbearable.

"Doctor, you smell like fresh chips," George said.

"And you smell like sweat and fear, but I'm not complaining," the Doctor replied.

Despite the Doctor's orders to keep his eyes open, George felt the great need to blink. His eyes didn't feel particularly dry or painful; it wasn't _his_ eyes that were the problem. It was the Doctor's. George couldn't bear to stare into them.

There was something powerfully off-putting about the Doctor's eyes. George couldn't place what it was about them that made him want to shrink away, but something in the Doctor's stare scared him. Something spoke of darkness, otherworldly strength, and great age. George couldn't begin to guess how such a youthful, almost childish man could have so much trapped in his eyes.

"You've got to stop blinking. The angel can't cross over if you're constantly slamming the door in its face," the Doctor said.

"Maybe your eyes are scaring it as badly as they're scaring me," George muttered. "It's too afraid to leave."

The Doctor's face fell. He did not have scary eyes. They weren't red, compound like a fly's, scattered all over his face, or protruding from his forehead on a great stalk. He'd seen scary eyes, a great many of them, and his were not among them. And even if they were—which they certainly weren't—it took something much scarier than one little Time Lord's ocular orbs to frighten off a weeping angel.

"No, it's definitely the blinking. My eyes, as experts would tell you, are actually quite adorable."

"Ever looked at yourself in the mirror?" George asked.

"I tend to avoid that. I'm always afraid a little girl will stare back at me and make me feel guilty."

George didn't want to know. He'd never want to know.

"That settles it. It's your fault this isn't working. So stop blinking," the Doctor said.

"I'm trying!"

"Try harder."

"I'm trying as hard six I can."

"Six! Your time is running out. George, I'm serious. You've got to stop blinking somehow. Oh, I know how."

The "gun" was rudely shoved against George's temple hard enough to hurt. He winced, then glared at the Doctor. Unwittingly, George did exactly what the Doctor wanted: he maintained steady eye contact with the Time Lord.

After a few seconds, George felt a peculiar itching sensation in his eyes. He instinctively reached up to rub them. A little gentle eyelid massaging quickly subdued the itchiness and left George feeling fine.

At the exact moment George had felt a mild itch, the Doctor had experienced something similar. His eyes felt dry and gritty, as though he'd gotten sand in them. The Time Lord took it to mean the angel had successfully transferred from its original host into one that was hopefully less accommodating.

"How do you feel?" the Doctor asked.

"I don't know. I don't feel any different, really." George blinked a few times to clear his vision and then looked over at the Doctor. "Did it work?"

"Yes, I believe it did. The angel's in my mind now. Oh, isn't this exciting? I've got a new life form growing inside me!"

"And what are you going to do about it?"

"I'm going to throw up every mental barrier and use every mind trick I ever learned."

"What happens then?"

"The angel either goes quietly or it fights back. If it fights back, it either shreds my mind and kills everything that makes me the fantastic bloke I am, or I drive it into a dark corner of my mind and cage it there," the Doctor replied.

"Can you beat it?"

"Won't know until I try."

Flashing George a thumbs-up and a perky smile, the Doctor prepared for mortal combat. He could feel the angel's presence inside his head. It would have easily hidden from a human—humans could have physical objects in their brains for years and be none the wiser!—but Time Lords were a bit more aware of their mental facilities. The Doctor knew where his adversary was lurking, and he intended to flush it out and make it face him.

The weeping angel would only get stronger and continue to develop if the Doctor kept his eyes open, so he closed them. He was better able to concentrate without the outside world to distract him, anyway. There was a reason people shut their eyes when they meditated; it allowed them to form a closer bond with their inner energy.

George sat in silence and watched the Doctor. The Time Lord was motionless and looked peaceful with his eyes closed and his hands resting in his lap. If he was fighting the angel, there was no outward sign of it.

"Doctor?" George said. "What's happening?"

The Doctor's beatific expression turned into a grimace. He sucked in a sharp hiss of a breath and bit down on his lower lip. George, thinking his speech had disturbed the Doctor, clapped a hand over his mouth and scooted away.

"Ah, it's not…going peacefully. And it's got…claws," the Doctor gasped.

The Doctor's hands leapt from his lap like a pair of startled cats. They fastened onto his head, the fingers intertwining with what hair Bob's barbering had left, and the palms pressing against his temples. The Doctor clutched at his head like someone suffering an agonizing migraine.

"Doctor! Are you alright?" In the history of questions with obvious answers, that had to be one of the most obvious.

"No! No, no," the Doctor moaned.

With a stifled cry, the Doctor fell over onto his side. His head was a riot of agony almost too intense to bear. The weeping angel was much stronger than he'd anticipated, and it was determined to do as much damage as possible to its host. It struck out with its claws, shredding any kind of barrier the Doctor tried to erect. He was relatively sure he would eventually win out, though the process was bound to be hellish.

George watched the Doctor's internal battle with bated breath. He had no way to know what was going on inside the Time Lord's head; the only useful hints were the occasional sounds of pain and the tortured expression on the Doctor's face. If those were anything to go by, the Doctor was having a nasty time of it.

The sound of a phone ringing startled George so badly he let out an involuntary yelp. His heart beating madly, he looked around for the source of the ringing. It sounded like the chime of his home phone, which was impossible: the phone only worked within a relatively short distance of its cradle.

Impossible or not, something was ringing inside the pocket of the Doctor's jacket. George picked the jacket up and stuck his hand into the pocket. To his great amazement, the pocket seemed to have no bottom. It took him some fishing before he found the phone and retrieved it.

Doubtlessly, the phone in his hand was his and it was ringing. George felt compelled to answer it. Whoever was on the other end must have had something important to say; they were suspending the phone's usual capabilities to get their message across.

"Hello? Molly, is this you? If it is, stop hurting the Doctor. He only wants to help," George said.

"Tell him to stop fighting. Tell him the time of angels has come."

"Why are you doing this to us? Molly, I love you. Please stop."

"Open the door. Let us in, and we will enlighten him."

George realized he was crying. Hearing his wife's voice stabbed him in the heart. Even if he knew it wasn't really her, the familiar voice elicited emotions he couldn't control.

"No, Molly, I won't." George ended the call.

Overhead, the jaded angel began to tear into the roof.

* * *

TBC!


	15. Flight

Holy wow! I never expected to receive so many reviews for the previous chapter. Thanks a lot for that, everyone. You're all beyond fantastic.

Several people have asked where Rory is, and to save the time and energy of PMing you all, here's the answer: he's around here somewhere. He won't show up until the very end of the fic, perhaps the last chapter but there's a reason for it. You'll all have to wait and see what that reason is.

* * *

This looked like the perfect moment to panic. Overhead, the angel was making short work of the roof; its claws raked through wooden beams that had been raised centuries ago and now fell with ease. The Doctor—the only one who could possibly stand against the angel—continued to writhe on the floor. He was far too preoccupied with the weeping angel in his head to worry about the weeping angel that was steadily carving its way through the roof.

George weighed his paltry options. Once the angel gained entry to the church, George supposed he could always try and trap it with his stare. That would work…for all of ten seconds. He might not even make it that long; George's eyes kept tearing up and his blinking rate was elevated. He'd be lucky to give the angel anything more than a momentary pause.

Even though it would only extend his life by seconds, keeping his eyes on the angel was one of the better options. The alternatives George considered—running, hiding, and surrendering—were all complete rubbish. He was as graceful a runner as a three-legged, cross-eyed cow, the church offered no hiding places except underneath the pews, and George was too terrified of the angel to calmly and passively wait for it to kill him.

Having decided that he'd make a valiant—albeit doomed—effort, George had only one thing left to do before the angel arrived. He had to make peace with the Doctor. That was rather difficult, as the Doctor was in no state to absolve him of his misdeeds.

"Doctor, you probably can't hear me, but I want to tell you I'm sorry. I'm sorry I punched you, I'm sorry I was an idiot, and I'm sorry you're in pain and it's my fault. I'm sorry we're both about to die, and I'm sorry for anything I neglected to mention but should still be held responsible for."

If any of George's words had gotten through to the Doctor, the Time Lord was unable to respond to them. George sighed and sat down on the floor. Even though he'd apologized for inadvertently luring the Doctor to his death, his conscience felt no lighter.

A bright circle of light fell upon the floor and George knew the roof had been breached. The hole in the roof was by no means large enough to admit the angel's body, but it would not take the preternaturally strong creature long to finish its work. Judging by how quickly the circle of light swelled, George supposed he'd have company in less than a minute.

Sixty-five seconds later, a stone arm reached in through the hole. George stared at the intruding arm and managed to freeze it for a pitiable thirteen seconds. Being in a state of acute terror, George discovered, was not conducive to keeping one's eyes open.

Freed from its quantum-lock, if only for the blink of an eye, the angel managed to get its head and shoulders through the hole. George turned it back to immobile stone just as it struggled to pull its wings through. He kept the angel stuck in its awkward position for less than half a minute before he blinked and the angel shoved its broad wings through.

Gravity did the rest. As George watched, the angel fell like the rock it was and crashed to the floor in a cloud of dust. The impact shook the sturdy church hard enough to rattle the stained-glass windows and scare fifty years off of George's life.

"Oh God, Doctor, it's in here," George whimpered.

The Doctor, either because he sensed what was happening or because the angel in his head had struck a particularly vicious blow, groaned and curled up into a tighter ball. George wished he had some way of comforting the Doctor, but even kind words escaped him at that moment. He was too terrified of the weeping angel that stood in the lilting cloud of dust to move his tongue and produce anything meaningful.

While George quivered and kept his eyes pried open, the Doctor continued to fight the good fight. He was slowly gaining the upper hand, forcing the angel away from the optic center of his brain and towards a place it would enjoy far less, and the angel was getting desperate. It slashed out with claws that, though they existed solely in the Doctor's head and had no corporeal form, hurt just as bad as the real thing.

'At least I can't bleed in here,' the Doctor mused as the angel lashed out again. If he'd been so viciously mauled in his physical body, instead of the clever mental defense form, he would have bled to death several times over.

Just as the thought-form Doctor wasn't encumbered by his circulatory system, the weeping angel was likewise spared its species instinct to turn to stone. Since thoughts weren't technically alive, the Doctor's defensive avatar couldn't freeze the angel by looking at it. The psychopathic stone was free to zip around and strike anything it found vulnerable. Though the Doctor was quite in tuned with the inner machinations of his mind, he had trouble keeping track of the angel as it sped about.

The best way to counteract the angel's speed was to restrict the area it had to utilize its talent. The Doctor threw up mental barriers in an attempt to trap the angel in an ever-shrinking cage. If he could cut off all its escape routes, he could seal it away and leave it like an old, forgotten box of Christmas baubles in the attic of his mind. It would, if all went according to plan, stay locked away either until it starved to death or until the fires of some future regeneration purged it from his mind.

As the walls closed in on the angel, it became frantic, like a bird that had flown in through a window and couldn't find its way back out again. Only instead of a harmless little sparrow that was incapable of doing anything except mindlessly flying into things, the angel was like a madman with an axe. Given enough time, he'd chop his way through the door and then set out to find the poor bastard stupid enough to lock him up in the first place.

The Doctor was the poor bastard in this case. He saw the angel throw itself at him and tried to bring up a protective wall. He was a moment too late and the angel evaded the barrier. It leapt upon him and forced him to the ground. Pinned beneath the angel's bulk, the Doctor could hardly move, let alone defend himself, as the angel sunk its claws deep into his chest.

In the outside world, the Doctor screamed. He clutched at his chest like someone having a heart attack and thrashed in agony. Both his hearts felt like they were being punctured and it hurt so horribly he half expected to die. Only past episodes of unbearable pain, inflicted by all manner of beings and instruments, assured the Doctor he wouldn't be so lucky.

The Time Lord's unrestrained cries made George cringe. In George's life, people didn't routinely writhe on the floor while screaming and bunching up great fistfuls of their shirts. He had not the foggiest notion of what he should do, and was horrified anything he tried would only make the situation worse.

"Doctor?" George asked quietly.

"Get off," the Doctor moaned. His face contorted and he fell back into inarticulate noises.

Without thinking, George looked down at the Doctor's body and tried to determine if something was indeed on him. In his moment of forgetfulness, the angel he'd been watching took advantage of the opportunity and surged forward. Before George could raise his head, the angel had seized him, lifted him from the floor, and flung him across the room with all the ease of an irate child casting aside a doll.

George was not a particularly aerodynamic man, and he landed in a clumsy, painful heap. The impact with the floor knocked the breath from his lungs and sent a general burst of pain throughout his body. In the seconds following his crash landing, everything hurt so badly George couldn't ascertain if he'd broken any bones or injured any organs. Every part of his body cried in tortured unison.

Now that George had been removed from its path, the angel turned on the helpless Doctor. He was still incapacitated by the angel in his mind, which was content to keep its claws imbedded deep in the Doctor's mental defenses. All the Time Lord's attention and energy was focused on saving his mind, and he was completely unaware of the weeping angel that bore down on him.

The angel's shadow fell over the helpless Doctor. One cruel, clawed hand hooked into his shirt and pulled him from the floor. The Doctor, ignorant of the precarious position his physical form was in, continued to struggle with the angel that threatened to exterminate all his higher brain function.

There had to be some way to escape. The Doctor tried to tamp down the pain long enough to think of a plan. Ignoring a pair of overgrown fingernails that were determined to dig your hearts out wasn't an easy thing to do, but the Doctor was determined to find a way. He pooled his concentration and focused all his energy on throwing the angel off. In the real world, he never would have had a chance; he was too scrawny to dislodge anything much larger than a Sontaran and even that might have been difficult if the Sontaran fancied staying put. In the realm of his mind, however, things worked a bit differently.

A Time Lord's brain was one of the most advanced mechanisms in the universe, and all its power focused at once was too much for the weeping angel to bear. Despite its formidable strength, the angel was catapulted off the Doctor. Before it could regain its senses and attack its unwilling host again, the Doctor brought walls down around the angel.

Like a bee trapped inside a jar, the angel threw itself against the walls of its enclosure. The Doctor, weary and horribly sore, fixed the enraged angel with the most serious glare he could muster.

"Stop it. I'm never letting you out and you're never getting out on your own. Sit down and be quiet or I'll set up a telly in here and show you Season 583 of _Big Brother_. I've got all three unspeakable episodes stored in my memories and I'm not afraid to use them."

As a species, weeping angels feared little: cracks in time and space were their only natural predators, and those anomalies were few and far between. Television, even television featuring a 30-stone man taking part in a naked dance competition, didn't dissuade the angel's efforts. It continued to strike at the mental cage it was trapped within.

The Doctor sighed. No matter how persuasive you were, some people—and eons-old predators—couldn't be swayed. They had to make everything more difficult.

"Alright, if you aren't going to behave, I'm going to have to turn out the lights," the Doctor said.

The Doctor visualized the angel's cage as a black box, and the walls turned opaque. He couldn't see in, and the angel couldn't see out. It was now truly cut off from the rest of the Doctor's brilliant mind, and would no longer pose a threat to anyone. Hopefully. As long as the Doctor was right about the strength of his mental barriers.

With the unborn angel taken care of and his mind safe and probably not any more shambolic than it had been, the Doctor eased back to consciousness. He supposed George would want an explanation, always assuming George hadn't made a run for it. He also supposed the angel on the roof would need to be addressed.

As he returned to his senses, the Doctor became increasingly aware that something was amiss. Unless his sense of touch had been severely damaged by his brain's unwanted guest, the Doctor's body had been moved during his unconscious spell. He remembered sitting on the floor as he prepared to go spelunking into his mind, and the floor had been less than posh. Now the Doctor couldn't feel anything, especially not the cold floor, underneath him. For that matter, he couldn't feel anything anywhere. It was like he was floating off the ground.

"Which is bollocks, because Time Lords can't fly. Mostly," the Doctor muttered.

At least his ears and tongue hadn't betrayed him. Now it was time to test his eyes and see if he couldn't find out where the floor had gotten off to.

The Doctor opened his eyes and got a good view of the ceiling. It seemed closer than it would have if he'd been sprawled out on the floor. That added credence to the Doctor's theory he and the floor had parted ways.

If the ceiling was above him, the Doctor's uncanny powers of deduction told him the floor would be below. He tilted his head forward and promptly saw a face that scared both his hearts straight into arrhythmia.

The angel formerly known as Molly, its face contorted in a silent snarl, was almost close enough to bite off his nose. The Doctor released an involuntary yelp and struggled furiously to get away. He kicked desperately against the unyielding stone body and writhed in a futile attempt to pry his shirt from the angel's grip.

Even the fiercest wriggling was useless. The shirt was too well-made to rip and the angel's grip on the fabric was far too strong to escape. The Doctor's only option was to strip.

As quickly as possible, the Doctor slipped off his braces and then unbuttoned his shirt. He dropped to the floor and scurried away from the angel. His eyes were beginning to burn and he needed to find George before he blinked. He was now out of clothing to shed, having lost first his jacket and now his shirt, and the next time the angel grabbed him he'd be down to a layer he couldn't slough off.

"George, where'd you get off to? George?" the Doctor called. He couldn't look around the church without taking his eyes off the angel.

"Over here, Doctor," George responded after a moment.

"Are you looking at the angel?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I can't sit up. The angel chucked me and I hurt everywhere."

"Stop being such a whiner. My mind was pregnant and the baby tried to kill me. Your problems don't sound so bad now, do they?"

No, George reckoned, they didn't. Groaning like a zombie, George managed to prop himself up into a sitting position. He looked towards the angel was quite surprised to find the Doctor standing shirtless in front of it.

"Why does the angel have your shirt?" George asked.

"Because it's jealous of my fashion sense, obviously."

"Right, okay."

"Where's my jacket? If the angel gets jealous of my body things could get nasty."

"Yeah, I suppose they could. Your jacket's a bit to your left. A step or two."

"Watch the angel; I'm going to get my jacket."

George nodded and stared straight ahead. The Doctor grabbed his wet, dirty jacket and shrugged it on. He didn't bother to button it; chances were he'd need to slide out of it in a hurry.

"What happened to that angel? The one in your head?" George asked as he struggled to his feet.

"I locked it in a cage. We don't need to worry about it anymore."

"Fantastic. We've just got to worry about the one in here."

"And the original angel. Don't forget about that one. It's still around here and we've got to find it. I don't think it will be too hard, though," the Doctor said.

"Why not?"

"Because it's watching us through the hole in the roof."

* * *

In other news, yay, shirtless Doctor!


	16. Boris the Spider

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

The original angel, the one responsible for the destruction of George's entire life, perched on the lip of the hole like a gargoyle. George kept it frozen up there, though he wouldn't be able to manage for long. His eyes hadn't evolved over the past few hours, and they still blinked every thirty seconds no matter how hard George tried to keep them open.

"Doctor, I need a bit of help here," George said as the familiar burn returned to his eyes.

"Sorry, just a little busy," the Doctor replied. "My weeping angel isn't going to watch itself."

"And my eyes aren't going to stay open much longer." George was getting frantic.

"That's a bloody shame, really, but it's every man and Time Lord for himself at this point. I'm not taking my eyes off the bugger who stole my shirt."

The pair of angels had utilized an ages-old battle strategy—divide and conquer—to place George and the Doctor in an unwinnable situation. Neither man nor Time Lord could keep his eyes open forever, though the man was considerably worse at it than the Time Lord. As the angels were positioned, it was impossible for one person to watch them both simultaneously. When George blinked and his angel dropped into the room, the only thing the Doctor could do was mutter a few choice words under his breath and hope he got to keep his clothes on this time.

"Shit, I don't know where it went!" George cried. In the millisecond it had taken to blink, the angel had disappeared.

"Find it!" The Doctor would have loved to help solve George's problem, but he had his own to worry about.

George found the suggestion helpful and began to search the church. He rotated in a complete circle and didn't catch so much as a flash of stony wings. He relayed this information to the Doctor, who ground his teeth in frustration.

"It moved faster than you spun. Go stand in the corner; you'll be able to see all of the church at once," the Doctor said.

Significantly slowed by the injuries he'd sustained when the angel had thrown him across the room, George hobbled towards the corner. In the time it took him to get there, entire civilizations might have risen and fallen.

"Do you see it?" the Doctor asked once George was properly positioned.

"No."

"Can you see my angel?"

"Yes."

"Fantastic." The Doctor was finally allowed to blink.

Once his eyes had returned to their natural moist state, the Doctor was better able to concentrate. His singularly clever mind tried to deduce where George's angel had gone. If it wasn't in view anywhere in the church, then there were only three possible explanations. The angel wasn't in the church anymore, the angel was hiding somewhere, or the angel had brought along an invisibility cloak and they were all going to die.

"George, will you please keep your eyes on my angel for the next ten seconds or so?"

"Only ten seconds? I think I can manage that," George replied.

"Good man. Alright, ten seconds, starting now."

Hoping George could manage a paltry ten seconds without losing control of his eyelids, the Doctor turned around and faced the corner in which George stood. George wondered what the Doctor was doing but managed to keep his eyes focused where they needed to be. The Doctor tilted his head back and looked up at the ceiling directly above George.

"Oh," he said.

The weeping angel was clinging to the ceiling like Boris the spider. It had sunk its stone claws into the wood and was suspended over George's head. If it were to retract its claws, it would fall directly onto George, crushing his fragile little human body into a disgusting puddle.

"It's been fifteen seconds," George said.

"Yeah."

"Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing at all. Just move forward, away from the corner."

"Why?"

"Don't worry about it. Nothing in the world to worry about."

"There is something to worry about. It's been twenty-six seconds now and my record's not much higher."

"Then run from the corner! Get out of there!"

George was slightly more capable of running than the average tomato. His aching body, pushed by the Doctor's frantic order, limped as fast as it could. He managed to get from underneath the angel and had nearly reached the Doctor's side when he blinked.

The angel disappeared, leaving George disgusted at himself for once again blinking at the most inopportune time. He was useless to the Doctor, to Molly, to everyone on the planet. It was really no wonder his wife was dead and he was trapped in a prolonged game of cat-and-mouse.

"Let me guess. You lost my angel." The Doctor didn't actually have to guess. He knew.

"I'll find it."

"You can hardly move. _I'll_ find it."

"And then what? We can't keep this up forever, Doctor."

The Doctor wished he could grab George by the shoulders, shake him until his brain bounced around inside his skull, and shout at him. Unless he wanted the ceiling angel to join its comrade in freedom, he could only do the shouting bit. It wasn't quite as powerful a motion, but angry Time Lords did possess a certain foreboding presence to them.

"So you'd like to give up, would you?" the Doctor snapped. "The fate of the world is hanging in the balance—every single man, woman, child, dog, wombat, and budgie in existence is depending on us—and you're ready to quit?"

George cringed in the face of the Doctor's accusation. Of course he didn't want to have every living creature driven to extinction by the weeping angels, but he was not type of man who could carry that weight without falling beneath the burden. It was breaking him physically and mentally. He hurt so badly even simple movements were torture and his mind had been in a constant state of panic since Molly's desperate phone call. He was exhausted and the angels were indefatigable.

"I don't _want_ to quit. I'm just…the wrong man for the job. I can't do it, Doctor, it's beyond my abilities."

"You're not the right man? Of course you aren't! The right man wouldn't have eyelids, he wouldn't react to pain, and he definitely wouldn't spend all day feeling sorry for himself. Unfortunately, that type of man is a Cyberman, and having one of them around might possibly lead to Cyber-Angels which would be my ultimate nightmare."

"What's any of that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're the only help I've got. You might not be the perfect help, but you're better than no help at all."

"I'm horrible help."

"I've had worse. Two cactus people once pushed me down a flight of stairs. _They_ were horrible help."

"Cactus people?"

"If we live, I'll tell you all about them."

Cactus people were intriguing, but they weren't the reason George decided to endure a bit longer. The Doctor, despite George's continued incompetence, still managed to retain some faith in the man. That took either a lunatic or the world's most dedicated optimist. Anyone else would have surely given up ages ago—probably around the time George punched them in the face and drove off after his weeping angel wife. The Doctor had persevered, and George owed him the same treatment.

"I don't want to be worse help than cactus people but we've got to try something else, Doctor. This blink and off they go rubbish has to stop. I can't take any more of it," George said.

The Doctor agreed. Looking at the angels was a temporary solution, and one they couldn't rely on for extended periods of time. George had a chronic need to blink, and even the superior eyes and willpower of a Time Lord couldn't sustain the Doctor forever. At that very moment, in fact, his eyes were burning.

"Do me another favor and I'll get working on a plan. Watch my new angel and don't lose this one."

"Where exactly is the angel? I don't see…you didn't tell me it was right above my head! It could have reached down and decapitated me!"

"Nah, the claws aren't long enough to cut all the way through your neck. At best, you'd be nearly-headless. 'Course, that would kill you just as dead, so I suppose it really doesn't matter unless you're concerned with aesthetics or joining the headless hunt," the Doctor mused.

"Doctor, can you stop talking? You're only inspiring some of the time, and that whole bit on heads is making me sick. Just plan silently, please," George begged.

Silence was not something the Doctor did well but out of consideration for George, he decided to try. While George watched the ceiling-clinging angel, the Doctor began to pace back and forth. He really wanted to meander around the whole church, but getting too far from George only invited disaster. The free angel could easily sneak around him, maul George's vulnerable back, and escape through the hole in the roof before he even knew what was happening.

"May I mutter to myself?" the Doctor abruptly asked.

"If it helps," George replied.

The Doctor's definition of muttering was everyone else's definition of normal speech. He continued on his path and held an animated conversation with himself. George had grown accustomed to the Doctor's eccentric behavior, and was able to ignore the Time Lord and focus on the snarling stone creature that leered down at him.

"Two angels, one on the ceiling and one on the move. We can't watch them both and they know it. They're clever, but not as clever as me. There is a way to beat them but I don't know what it is yet. Or do I? Maybe I do because I've done it before. Twice. But the second time's useless. I don't have a crack in time and space. But the first encounter…much more applicable experience."

The Doctor thought back on his first experience with the weeping angels. He'd been a very different Doctor back then, but he hadn't been any less clever. Even operating from 1969, he'd managed to fool the angels into eternal stoniness and recover his TARDIS. If he could apply his former self's stratagem, maybe he could trick the angels into looking at each other.

"I need to blink." George's voice intruded into the Doctor's happy thought bubble. The Time Lord, his mind ticking like a Clockwork Droid, watched the angel while George took care of his dry eyes. He continued to speak aloud while he stared so his mind wouldn't lose its train of thought.

"The TARDIS isn't here—bloody good thing, too—but there must be a way to play the same trick. Some way to get both angels to attack at once."

"Why would you want them to do that? It's insane!" George exclaimed.

To avoid alerting the angels to any specifics, the Doctor whispered in George's ear, "We have to blink; weeping angels don't. If we can get them to look at each other, they'll be trapped in stone forever. They're usually conscious of other angel's movements, so we've got to distract them."

"How'd you do it last time? Would having your TARDIS, whatever that is, make it easier?" George asked.

"Easier, but infinitely more dangerous. The TARDIS, which is my means of transportation, is an unfathomably powerful source of energy. If the angels were to get it, they could extinguish the sun. Of course…oh, George, you're marvelous. If I was Captain Jack, I'd kiss you!"

George didn't know what he'd done to deserve a kiss, or who Captain Jack was, but something about the Doctor's manic grin put him on edge. The Doctor had been talking about the angels snuffing out the sun with the power of the TARDIS, but he wasn't frightened or upset by the idea. Just the opposite, he seemed invigorated and excited, as though he were eager to see it happen.

"Of course, they couldn't get in without the key. This key, in fact." The Doctor reached into his pocket and produced a nondescript key that looked as though it could have belonged to anyone's gate or front door lock.

"Oh yes, if a weeping angel were to possess this key, it could have access to almost limitless energy. And not just any kind of energy. Pure time energy. Delicious, precious time energy, and enough of it to feed an army of weeping angels for millennia."

The Doctor had lost his mind. George came to this realization as he watched the Time Lord entice the angels with promises of infinite food and the death of humanity. No sane person would try to defeat an enemy by supplying it with the most powerful weapons and the best gear.

"But this is my key, and you can't have it. This key here, this is definitely not for weeping angels." The Doctor approached the angel that clung to the ceiling like a bat and held the key out, teasing the lifeless stone.

After waving the key in the angel's face for a moment, the Doctor snatched it back. He casually strolled away from the angel and, as though it were a coin, began to toss the key into the air. To prove how aloof he was about the whole situation, the Doctor also startled to whistle _God Save the Queen_.

George couldn't turn around and look at the Doctor, but hearing the British anthem nearly induced a stroke. There was no denying it; the Doctor had devolved into a complete nutter. Any chance they might have had was now gone for good.

"I love my key. It's just so fantastic. Don't you agree, George? Here, catch!"

George whirled around just as the Doctor whipped the key at him. He had no time to prepare; the silver key was a blur and then it was nestled safely in his tightly clenched fist.

"Throw it back!" the Doctor shouted. Without thinking, George did as he was told. At the exact moment the key left his hand, the angel he'd been watching leapt upon him. It realized the key was gone and flung George to the side with a single powerful blow.

The Doctor snagged his key and, in the same motion, dropped to his knees. He would know in less than a second if his plan had succeeded. If there was an angel on either side of him and neither angel moved, he'd timed everything perfectly. If his hand was torn off and his TARDIS key was stolen, he'd been an idiot and he deserved the death the angels would swiftly deliver.

* * *

TBC!

Boris the spider is from a song by, appropriately enough, the Who. Just in case anyone was wondering.


	17. Bottomless Pockets

I'm afraid the next chapter may take a bit of time. My good for nothing dog attacked my computer and chewed off more than half the keys. Luckily, this chapter was all but done, so it wasn't much affected, but the next one's going to need to wait until I can get a new keyboard installed. In two weeks... Bah!

Having properly bitched and moaned, I now want to thank all the reviewers. Way to push the review count over 100! That's extraordinary! Thank you all!

* * *

The Doctor looked up and saw two pairs of vicious claws frozen mere inches from his face. He blinked and the claws did not descend and shred him in an attempt to get his TARDIS key. Satisfied that the angels, in their haste to seize him, had accidentally looked at each other, the Doctor inched away from the statues. Once he was out from underneath their grasping arms, he stood up and allowed a broad grin to stretch across his face.

"Oh yes, how do you like that? Big, scary angel monsters and now you're trapped in stone…forever!" The Doctor felt like a more righteous form of Boba Fett, and he couldn't help taunting the less-attractive but equally frozen versions of Han Solo.

He indulged in his _Star Wars_ fantasy for another minute—he pretended to fire blasters at the weeping angels and tried a C-3PO impression that came out more Dalek than droid—and then remembered George might be watching. And Amy might find out through him that her Doctor was not, in fact, a cool Doctor, but actually a boffin.

In an effort to salvage his dignity, the Doctor coughed and promptly stopped pointing his finger at the angels as though it were a weapon.

"Right, you didn't see any of that, did you, George?"

George did not answer, and the Doctor suspected it was because George was too busy covering his mouth in an attempt to hold back his laughter.

"George, I'll have you know that what I did was a perfectly acceptable victory celebration. And not something that should be shared. Ever. With anyone."

Still no answer, though that was easily explainable. George had been forced to clamp his hand over his mouth so firmly that he'd accidentally asphyxiated himself and had passed out. Either that or the pressure of his laughter had been too much and he'd exploded, though the Doctor found that explanation unlikely since he hadn't heard any explosions.

"Alright, you can tell one person. So long as it's not Amy. Or Bob. He admires me and I don't want you tarnishing my image."

When George didn't reply, the Doctor began to feel anxious. George should have said _something_ by now.

The Doctor turned around and saw no sign of George. Anxiety evolved into fear. George had definitely been standing directly behind him when the angels had attacked. He'd thrown the key to the Doctor, and now he was simply gone. In the space of a second, George had pulled a perfect vanishing act.

"Maybe they sent him back in time," the Doctor said. "He was in their way, they didn't have time to kill him so they shipped him off to the distant past."

It was a sound theory, but before he accepted George's fate, the Doctor was going to check the church. If it didn't cough up George, that meant the poor man was lost to points of time unknown.

The Doctor began to check between the rows of pews. He had hardly begun his search when he noticed a disturbing sign. One pew was slightly crooked and a smear of red that was almost certainly blood stained the wood.

His hearts suddenly racing, the Doctor crouched down and peered under the pew. George, unmoving, lay on the floor. The Doctor called his name and prodded him in an attempt to garner any kind of response. George was as still as the dead.

"No, don't you dare die, not now! We've beaten the angels and you deserve to see it!" The Doctor's words were choked with anguish.

Though space was limited, the Doctor got down onto his stomach and wormed underneath the pew so he was alongside George. He reached a tentative hand for the man's neck and rested two fingers below George's chin. After a few frantic seconds of searching, the Doctor found a pulse that didn't feel particularly weak or arrhythmic. For further proof of life, he placed his hand in front of George's mouth and instantly felt warm breath on his palm.

Relieved, the Doctor squirmed out from under the pew. George was alive, but he was unconscious and that streak of blood had probably come from his head colliding with unforgiving wood. No matter how thick George's skull was—and the Doctor did suspect it approached concrete—he'd surely suffered a concussion and possibly had injuries that were far worse. The Doctor couldn't ascertain or treat those injuries while George was underneath the pew. Though there was a risk associated with moving George, the risk of leaving him where he was and not seeing to his injuries was far graver.

"Don't worry, George, I'll have you out in half a mo'," the Doctor said.

As gently as possible, the Doctor eased George out from the confined space. George, for all he responded, could have been a particularly heavy bag of rice.

Once George was lying in the center aisle, the Doctor assessed his condition. As he'd suspected, George had a nasty head wound. There was a mess of hair, matted with blood, plastered to George's right temple. Somewhere beneath that hair lurked a cut of indeterminate length and depth. Without shaving George's head, the Doctor couldn't get a much better look at the injury. He decided it would be best to apply pressure and stop the bleeding, wake George up if he could, and then get out of the church and back to Amy and Bob.

The Doctor needed something to press against George's head, and his own filthy jacket was not appropriate. George's shirt, having come in contact with said filthy jacket, was only marginally more sanitary. The Doctor wondered if some priestly vestments hadn't been left behind but figured anything as delicate as clothing would have been removed when the church became more local landmark than place of worship.

"Uh, how would you react if I took off my pants? How about your pants?" the Doctor asked George's unconscious body.

In his first verbal response, George moaned. The Doctor agreed whole-heartedly. He didn't want anybody's pants coming off, either.

"Alright, not the pants. Maybe…maybe I've got something in my pockets." The Doctor reached into his cavernous jacket pockets and began to scoop out random objects.

"A pencil, nope, not going to help. A screw. Hmm, wonder where that's from. Hope it's not important. Jelly babies. How long have they been in there?" The Doctor bit into one of the sweets, winced, and spat it out. "A long time."

By the time the right pocket was depleted, the Doctor had amassed a pyramid of useless items. He felt like one of those women who feel the need to carry around half their Earthly belongings in their massive purses.

"Come on, left pocket, what've you got to offer?" The Doctor began a second pyramid from the stuff in his remaining pocket.

After throwing out a tube of lipstick he believed belonged to Marilyn Monroe, a fishing lure, an incandescent feather, and a handy guide to poisonous flora in the Fornax Galaxy, the Doctor felt fabric slide along his fingertips. He grabbed the object and pulled it free.

Socks. Wonderful. The Doctor gave the rolled-up socks a quick sniff. At least they were clean socks.

"Okay, George, I found something better than pants," the Doctor said.

The Doctor pressed the socks against George's head and got an instant reaction. George's eyes opened and he began to flail at the Doctor. His blows were horribly uncoordinated, no doubt from the beating his brain had received, and most of them missed the Doctor entirely. The few that landed against his shoulders and head were as easy to shrug off as the playful batting of a kitten.

"You've got to calm down. You've hit your head and you're bleeding. I know it hurts, but you need to let me help you," the Doctor said.

George gibbered something that was not English, nor any of the other million languages the Doctor knew. Another symptom of a serious concussion, the Doctor reckoned.

"Sorry, didn't catch a word of that."

His voice slurred, George tried again and managed to produce words that were understandable but made no sense in the order he strung them together. The Doctor asked him to clarify. After a false start in which he opened his mouth and produced nothing, George prodded his scrambled mind into functioning.

"What happened? I don't angels remember," he said.

"I didn't actually see it happen, but the angel must have hit you. You knocked your head off a pew, and now you're a bit confused. You're making progress, though, so I'd call that a good sign," the Doctor said.

"Head, my head, it hurts," George moaned.

"Yeah, that would come from the whole being-knocked-against-the-pew bit. You were unconscious and you just woke up," the Doctor explained. "Sorry you had to wake up to this, but it's better than never waking up at all, right?"

George abruptly started sobbing. The Doctor decided not to dismiss it as simply George's reaction to physical or emotional pain. He'd been in pain since he'd woken up, but unless he'd suddenly had a massive spike of agony, this level of crying seemed unwarranted. It was more likely, in the Doctor's opinion, that the crying was a symptom of emotional instability brought on by a severe concussion.

As abruptly as the flood came, the spigot was turned off. George stopped sobbing and appeared genuinely confused as to why he'd started in the first place. The Doctor offered him a pat on the shoulder.

"That was out of your control," the Doctor assured. "Your brain's been bashed around, and it doesn't know what it's doing yet. It'll sort itself out eventually."

"How can you know that if you're not a doctor?" George asked.

"I'm better than _a_ doctor, I'm _the_ Doctor. And I've probably seen more head injuries—and not just in humans—than anyone else in the universe. Now that I think about it, I've probably experienced more head injuries than anyone else in the universe."

"Wonderful," George muttered. "That explains why you're off your trolley."

"See, now you're grumpy for no reason. You've definitely got a concussion."

"I am _not_ grumpy!"

"No, now you're furious."

"I…I am furious. I don't like this, Doctor."

The Doctor offered George another pat. "Don't worry. It won't last forever and as soon as I'm sure you aren't going to leave a trail of blood behind us, we can leave."

George's eyes suddenly widened to such an extent they threatened to pop from their sockets. He gasped, groped for the Doctor's arm, and when he found it, he squeezed hard enough to make the Time Lord wince.

"But what about the angels? How are we going to leave? Won't they follow us? Why aren't they attacking us now?"

"They're never going to attack anyone again. I tricked them into looking at each other, and they're both stone for good," the Doctor replied.

The hand that clutched at his arm loosened its grip and released him. The Doctor was glad to have his arm free, but even gladder to see the look of total relief that crossed George face.

"Can I see them?" George asked. "I want to see them."

The Doctor removed the socks from George's head and there was no resulting great spout of blood. He supposed this meant George would not die if he moved a little. With a steady pair of arms supporting his back and shoulders, George was able to sit up.

Indistinguishable from any other statues—except perhaps in their detail and ugliness—the weeping angels stood not far away. George was reluctant to blink in their presence, but the Doctor promised him nothing ill would come of it. Accepting the Doctor's word, George blinked and was pleasantly surprised when neither angel did so much as twitch a talon.

"I can't believe you stopped them, Doctor. I thought for sure they were going to murder us both, just like they murdered Molly. But they didn't. You saved us," George said.

"I didn't do anything alone. We saved each other. If you didn't have me and I didn't have you, both of us would be dead," the Doctor replied.

"I wish Molly was here to hear you say that. She never would have thought I'd be capable of fighting aliens. I can't even cook for myself. I'm going to burn the house down without her." George began to cry again, though the tears were not the product of his concussion this time.

"She was a good woman, and I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. She deserved much better and if anyone failed her, it was me. I shouldn't have left you two alone with the angel. I should have known better. I am horrible at protecting people and Molly had to suffer for it."

George sobbed harder and the Doctor wrapped him in a comforting hug. They stayed like that until George quieted.

"You're not horrible, Doctor. Without you, the bloody angels would get the whole planet. You saved seven billion lives," George said.

"Yes, but I didn't save seven billion and one, and that one was important! That one was Molly!"

"Doctor, if you need to hear me say it, I forgive you. It wasn't your fault, but I forgive you anyway. And if Molly's still around, she forgives you, too. I know she does, and I don't feel it's wrong to speak for her." Now it was George's turn to initiate the hug.

Hugs made everything a little better. The Doctor felt some of the guilt lift, though a hefty chunk of it remained behind. He'd never get rid of it entirely and he had almost come to accept that. This regeneration was able to handle failure better than its predecessor. It hadn't tried to destroy any fixed points in time, at least.

"Thank you, George. I've learned to never underestimate the healing power of a good hug," the Doctor said.

"That's a good book title, _The Healing Power of a Good Hug_. I'd rather get hit by a bus than buy it, but I know loads of people who'd read it," George replied with a laugh.

Now that they were no longer on the verge of tears, the Doctor decided it would be a good time to leave. Bob and Amy were probably assuming the worst; the Doctor had been gone far longer than he intended. The sooner he could get back to them, the sooner he could find a permanent solution for their angel, as well.

"I hope you remember where you parked your truck, George, because we're in no shape to run from chickens."

* * *

TBC!


	18. The 900 Year Old Child

Thanks for the reviews! I appreciate them dearly, I do!

Good news, everyone! I know some people have been asking how there were three angels. It is explained in this chapter!

Also, a little spoiler for upcoming chapters. (Don't tell River I told you.) A few characters from the relatively recent past are going to have some parts to play before the fic is done. Feel free to speculate.

* * *

George did remember where he'd parked—behind a prominent wild privet that was growing farther down the dilapidated Church Street—and the Doctor was almost ready to begin the trek. There was just one last thing to be taken care of: all the stuff had to be returned to its rightful place in the Doctor's pockets. While George puzzled over how the tweed jacket could possibly have the same capacity as a large suitcase, the Doctor returned his eclectic collection to its proper home. There was no rhyme or reason to the order in which the items were thrown into his pockets, nor was there any guarantee the items from the left pocket wouldn't be relocated to the right.

After most of the pockets' contents had been safely stored away, the Doctor came across the inedible jelly babies. He didn't know what to do with them. If he put them back in his pocket, he'd soon forget they were disgusting and would, sometime in the near future, either attempt to eat them himself or give them to some hostile alien as a peace offering. It didn't seem right to leave them on the floor, however. That would be littering.

Inspiration came to the Doctor after a moment, and he knew exactly how to properly dispose of the jelly babies without making any more of a mess out of the church than he and the angels already had. He picked up the bag of sweets, carried them over to the frozen angels, and began to jam the jelly babies into the angel's open mouths.

"And what's your favorite? The orange ones? Here, have another! And you look like you'd enjoy the rest." The Doctor poured every remaining jelly baby into the angel's fanged maw.

With his pockets now devoid of outdated snacks, the Doctor was able to pick up the few remaining items without any more delays. Once everything had been stowed away, the Doctor decided it was time to go. The only thing left to do was get George on his feet and get him moving towards the door.

"Do you think you can stand, George?" the Doctor asked.

George supposed he could, though the only way to test him was to get him off the floor and onto his own feet. The Doctor provided support as George slowly and carefully raised himself first to his knees and then to his full height. He was shaky—smashing one's head against solid wood did tend to affect one's balance—but managed to keep upright.

"I feel like I'm taking my first steps all over again," George said as he staggered forward with the Doctor's help.

"You're a bit young to be having a second childhood. I didn't have mine until I was over one hundred. After that, they really started occurring more often, though. My third childhood only took another forty years. And I think my fourth regeneration had about eight childhoods."

George, having become almost immune to the nonsense the Doctor lived to spout, did not pursue any line of questioning. Whoever or whatever his fourth regeneration was, he could keep it private. George was sure he would live a happier, less confusing life if he simply accepted the Doctor's bizarre statements and then promptly purged them from his mind.

They managed to make it to the doors without George collapsing on the floor. The doors were locked, and they could advance no farther until the Doctor remedied the situation. The Doctor plunged a hand into his pocket, submerged his arm past the elbow, and began to feel around. In retrospect, he should have, when piling his stuff back into his pockets, placed the sonic screwdriver on top.

"Where are you? Come out here and do your sonic duty. Ah, found it!" The Doctor triumphantly pulled the sonic screwdriver from his pocket.

A brief whir later, the doors were open and George was shuffling into the sunshine while the Doctor walked with a less zombie-like gait. Both human and Time Lord had doubted they'd ever leave the church alive. Having warm sunlight on their skin and grass beneath their feet assured them that they had somehow survived.

Basking in the sunlight like a pair of cats was pleasant, but finding George's truck and getting back to Bob and Amy had priority. George led the Doctor around the graveyard wall. The process was slow and tedious, as George was in so much pain from being thrown about that he needed to stop several times. The Doctor waited for him to catch his breath and managed to hide his growing impatience and anxiousness. It wasn't fair to rush George, and it would only lead to him collapsing and hurting himself worse, but the Doctor needed to know that Amy and Bob were alive and their angel wasn't out destroying the neighborhood.

After twenty agonizing minutes, they arrived at George's truck. Without needing to be asked, George handed his keys to the Doctor. He was in no shape to drive, and certainly didn't trust his concussed brain with any task that required quick reflexes. If he couldn't outpace a turtle, he had no business behind the wheel.

"Do you have a driving license, Doctor?" George asked. A negative response wouldn't make him grab the keys back; he was simply curious if the Doctor had anything so mundane.

"I've got something better!" The hand went back into the pocket, dug around for a bit, and then brought what looked like a wallet. The Doctor flipped open the wallet and showed George what amounted to a piece of blank paper.

"That's better than a driving license? Suppose the police would disagree," George said.

"And what about now?" The Doctor flipped the wallet closed, opened it again, and flashed it at George.

Instead of white paper, a very official-looking document now occupied the wallet. According to the document, the Doctor had a universal license for any vehicle that drove, floated, jetted, motored, pedaled, flew, walked, rowed, hovered, or moved in any other conceivable way through British territory. George stared at it in awe.

"How'd you do that? I didn't know the government gave out those things! Bloody hell, what kind of test did you have to pass to get one?" George asked.

Grinning, the Doctor closed his wallet and handed it to George. When George opened it, the universal license had vanished but the paper wasn't blank. There were two words centered on the page: psychic paper.

"There're very few things anywhere in the universe as useful as psychic paper," the Doctor said.

In George's hands, the two words faded and an entirely new document materialized right before his eyes. It was a perfectly standard driving license—no helicopters or boats or hovercrafts were included—and the Doctor was identified as the bland John Smith.

"This is magic paper," George said as he examined the license. Though he wasn't a trained policeman, he did have his own license, and the Doctor's looked just as real.

"Psychic paper, magic paper, practically the same thing. It works by picking up mental projections. All you have to do is concentrate on an image—a driving license, for instance—and it appears on the paper. Of course, it doesn't have to be anything as boring as a driving license. I once used it to declare myself the official fish-and-chips inspector of London. That was _fun_."

"Will it work for anyone?" George asked.

"Mostly. Try it. Just be careful because—"

George, his face suddenly bright red, wordlessly handed the paper back to the Doctor. Out of consideration for George, the Doctor let the paper clear before opening it.

"If you've never used it before, it tends to pick up thoughts other than what you intended," the Doctor finished.

"I think I'll leave it to the professionals," George muttered. "If Molly'd seen that…"

To distract George from whatever shame the psychic paper had revealed, the Doctor decided to show him why the British government would never grant the Time Lord a legitimate driving license. The Doctor started the truck and, before George could buckle his seat belt, the vehicle roared through the privet. Bits of the decimated shrubbery clung to the front of the truck. A larger branch struck the windscreen and bounced off. George hugged himself and started to pray.

"You're going to kill us," George cried as his truck flew down the poorly-maintained street.

"This is _brilliant_!" the Doctor replied joyfully.

Though George had completely ignored the speed limit during his mad dash to the church, not even then had the truck been treated in such a manner. It took turns at speeds that, according to the laws of physics, it should never have been able to manage. It blew by the yard infested with killer chickens almost fast enough to suck the hens into the slipstream. With a squeal of tires, the truck woke the sleeping old man, who promptly reached for his stick and prepared to wallop whoever had disturbed him.

"We'll be there in another minute, George," the Doctor said. He almost wished George lived farther from the church so he would have a reason to go fast longer.

George did not reply. He was so terrified by the Doctor's physics-bending driving that he had slipped it catatonia.

The truck turned onto George's driveway and the Doctor parked it. As soon as the engine was off, George shoved the door open, tried to move too quickly, and spilled out onto the ground. He lay in a crumbled heap, his feet still in the truck, and made no attempt to get up. The ground under his body was not moving at the speed of light, wasn't being driven by a certifiable lunatic, and wasn't scaring him out of his mind. He was content to lay there forever as long as none of those things changed.

"George? Are you alright?" the Doctor asked.

"Just fine, Doctor. Go see to Bob and Amy. I'm happy here," George responded in a dazed voice.

"If you're sure."

"I've never been more sure of anything."

Leaving George to embrace the ground and gather his facilities, the Doctor hurried into the house. As soon as the door opened, he heard two people frantically call his name. He ran towards the source of the voices.

When he'd left in search of George, there had been two people guarding the angel and the winged psychopath had been taped to a skateboard and was lying at the foot of the stairs. Now there were three people guarding the angel and the angel itself had shed its skateboard and was standing in the center of the living room with its fangs bared and its arms outstretched as though it had been grasping for someone.

"Hello!" the newest watcher greeted when the Doctor entered the room.

The newcomer was a young woman, surely no older than twenty, who looked too much like Bob not to be a relative. She was, the Doctor reckoned, the sister Bob had mentioned earlier. She was also, like Bob had been at first, apparently more excited about the angel than terrified by it.

"Is that Doctor Bowtie?" the woman asked. She wanted to turn away from the angel and look at the mythical Doctor, but she had her priorities straight. There was no way she was letting the angel move again.

"Are you Brilliant Bob's sister?" the Doctor said.

"Brilliant Bob? That's better than he deserves. Slightly-above-average Bob is what I would call him."

Amy took it upon herself to make introductions. She was dying to know what had transpired between George, Molly, and the Doctor and getting the niceties out of the way first seemed like the best idea.

"This is Eleanor, and she is Bob's sister. That's Doctor Bowtie, only his bowtie was murdered by the angels. I'm sure he's got more, though," Amy said. "Now where have you been, Doctor?"

"I went to church," the Doctor replied. "And then some bad things happened, and then some worse things, and then the angel stole my shirt."

Amy's eyes, completely against her will, flicked away from the angel and to the Doctor's chest. Eleanor, had she been facing the Doctor's general direction, would have done the same. Only Bob wasn't particularly interested in what the Doctor's state of undress was.

"What happened to Molly and George?" Amy asked. She tactfully refocused her eyes on the angel. Though she would never admit it, not under the worst torture, she was somewhat disappointed. The angels might have stolen the Doctor's shirt, but they'd left his jacket.

"He's outside, recovering. She's…not."

"She's dead, then? Did you…find her body?" Amy was glad George wasn't present to hear her ask.

"I don't think there is a body. The original angel must have transformed her corpse; that's why it took her, to make a new friend. It probably looked into her eyes after it killed her. Enough of a reflection to hold the image, I suppose. She, it, Angel Molly tried to murder George by planting an angel in his mind," the Doctor explained.

Amy gasped in horror, both for George and as old memories flooded her. Her mind had once been the playground for a weeping angel, and it had been a singularly terrifying experience. She'd been saved, but only with the help of an unnatural temporal event.

"How did you stop it? Have you been carrying around a space-time crack in your pocket?" Amy asked.

"No, unfortunately not. Though I'm sure that would just ruin the fabric, anyway. I evicted the angel," the Doctor said, hoping Amy wouldn't ask for more details. He had a feeling she'd be very, very cross if she discovered he had a weeping angel perpetually trapped inside his head.

"But _how_?" Amy insisted. "How do you evict a weeping angel?"

"By offering it new lodging."

"Doctor. What did you do?"

"I…something stupid?"

Very, very cross didn't begin to approach how angry she sounded. The Doctor felt an almost overwhelming desire to cringe, abase himself and beg for forgiveness.

"You just _wait_ until we get back to the TARDIS," Amy hissed.

The Doctor almost wished he was back in the church with the weeping angels.

* * *

TBC!

Author's Note:

To those who speak British English, I've got a question regarding trucks. I know "lorry" is the term used to describe larger, cargo-carrying vehicles, what we in America would call "tractor trailers" or "big rigs". Is a smaller, pickup-type truck still called a truck in Britain?


	19. Everyone's Good for Something

Thank you all so much for the reviews! They made me whimsical.

* * *

Whatever punishment Amy had devised for him back on the TARDIS—it would probably be humiliating himself in some way for her and Rory's amusement—would have to wait a little longer. Though all three angels were frozen, they still weren't permanently dealt with quite yet. The two angels in the church were of lesser concern; they were trapped in a building that received only a few visitors. The angel in the room was more of a problem. It was watched solely by eyes that needed to blink, and it was taking up a large portion of George's living space. Eventually, people—neighbors, police, whoever—would come asking why there was an enormous hole in the wall, why nobody had seen Molly, and what kind of lunatic kept such ugly statues inside. No, the angel simply could not stay.

"We can't leave yet, Pond. This isn't over," the Doctor said.

"I realize that, Doctor. I'm looking at the unresolved issue right now! It's big, grey, and wants to take over the world!" Amy snapped. "Hurry up and do something about it."

"As I've said before, weeping angels aren't easy to deal with. I'll have you know that my last regeneration needed forty years, Easter eggs, and a one-of-a-kind timey-wimey detector to stop them. And those were flunky angels."

Before Amy could threaten the Doctor, Bob and Eleanor leapt in. They wanted to know all about the Doctor's past adventures, down to the minutest detail involving the timey-wimey detector, which they both agreed had the best name ever. The Doctor smirked at Amy. At least _some_ people appreciated him for the genius he was.

"You can hear all about it—including why chickens and timey-wimey detectors must be kept at least thirty paces apart—after we take care of the angel. It doesn't deserve to hear my magnificent stories," the Doctor said.

Amy rolled her eyes. The Doctor could be quite the little egomaniac sometimes. How a man who cried over a bowtie had any pride at all, she still couldn't fathom.

"Why can't you put this angel with the other ones?" Bob asked. "That would be easy."

"Because they're going to have to move, as well. Exactly when depends on how you answer the following question: how many people visit that lovely little church?"

Bob couldn't give an accurate estimate. Old churches were of little interest to him—unless he and his friends were creeping into their graveyards at midnight—and he had better things to do than play trainspotter with tourists who came to take pictures of quaint, old relics. He doubted the number was anything substantial, but he was worried about providing too low of an estimate. If someone stumbled across the angels because the Doctor didn't relocate them in time, that would be disastrous.

Eleanor, however, had a bit more knowledge. She worked at a restaurant that would, barring a sudden explosion of business, be dead and buried before winter. There was nothing to do most days except sit around and listen to the customers—who were almost all old women—gossip and talk about their cats. One of the regulars, and a champion at knowing everyone's business, happened to be the head of the local historical society. She had personally experienced all history since 1930, so the job suited her. By chance, she'd been decrying how, because nobody was visiting the church, the doors were only opened on the weekends.

Eleanor relayed this information, and the Doctor was relieved. It was only Tuesday. He'd have plenty of time to remove the angels from the church and store them _somewhere_. If the situation became desperate enough, the Doctor supposed he might also consider transferring the angel from George's house to the church. At least that way the weeping angels would all be together.

"I don't suppose any of your customers mentioned deserted hidey-holes where nobody ever goes, ever," the Doctor said.

"Doctor, the average age of my customers has to be sixty-five. The only deserted hidey-holes they know about are their attics," Eleanor replied.

"And those won't work! I couldn't live with myself if a weeping angel fell out of the ceiling and killed an old lady."

Since Eleanor could provide no further information, the Doctor turned to Bob. If anyone in the room was going to know about secret places, it would be the boy who had minimal respect for rules and his own safety. Anyone who got his thrills by skateboarding off the roof had to have some private getaway where he could risk his bones without his mother catching him and banishing him to his room until he was middle-aged.

"Where do you go, Brilliant Bob, when you want to be alone?" the Doctor asked.

"My room," Bob said. "And Geoff's garage. He leaves the window unlatched for me."

"We aren't putting the angel in either of those places."

"Geoff would like it, though. Until it tried to kill him. He might still like it, actually. Geoff's weird."

"We _still_ aren't putting the angel in Geoff's garage. Don't you have a clubhouse or an old shed in the middle of nowhere?"

"It burned down."

"Long-forgotten bomb shelter?"

"We couldn't get the door to open."

"Hollow tree?"

"Bees built a hive in it."

"I give up!" the Doctor exclaimed. Now, at least, he understood why Bob skateboarded with a death wish; all the normal pleasures a boy his age should have been able to enjoy were either infested with stinging insects or reduced to ashes.

While the Doctor pouted and Bob tried to think of any spots his mates had even mentioned, Eleanor took note of something important. The shadows in the room were beginning to elongate and the sunlight wasn't as strong as it had been when she'd first stuck her head in the hole the angel had bored in the kitchen wall.

"Doctor Bowtie, before you do that, you should consider one thing," Eleanor said.

"What's that?"

"It isn't long until sunset."

"Crap."

The Doctor ran to the nearest window and looked west. The sun was still floating entirely above the horizon like a radioactive beach ball, but the sky was beginning to take on a stunning golden glow. If not for the fact nightfall would trap them all in the house with the weeping angel, as not even the Doctor could see in the dark, he might have stopped to admire nature's outstanding beauty. He'd seen an incalculable number of sunsets—planets orbiting binary star systems did tend to produce the most elaborate shows—but they never got old.

"Considering the month, latitude, and hemisphere, I'd say we've got fifty-two minutes to astronomical sunset and an hour and forty minutes until we can't see our hands in front of our faces. So we either act now, or we spend the most miserable night imaginable watching the angel by lamplight. Which, by the way, is a very bad idea, as weeping angels tend to shorten the life of light bulbs considerably," the Doctor said.

"Doctor, I am not going to spend the next ten hours staring at that _thing_!" Amy shouted. "If you don't think of something in the next five minutes, I will tell River Song about that box of fezzes you've got stored in your closet."

The Doctor whimpered. "Not my fezzes, they're all I've got left!"

"Come on, then, Doctor. All those innocent fezzes, with their little tassels…they won't stand a chance against River. She'll blow them into fez confetti."

As though the burden of saving all intelligent life wasn't heavy enough! Now he had to imagine River Song, in all her haughty glory, summarily executing his precious fezzes. That could not be allowed to pass, not in any timeline!

"Fine, we'll take the angel to the church and sleep on a better solution. Just don't you dare mention the words 'River' and 'fez' in the same sentence again."

"Are you sure, Doctor? Didn't you already reject that plan?" Amy asked. She didn't want the Doctor, out of desperation or an over-attachment to his stupid hats, to jeopardize the Earth.

"I didn't know the church was only open on the weekend. Now that I do, I feel it's worth the risk. It's certainly better than keeping the angel here, where I'll end up being the only one awake enough to watch it," the Doctor responded.

Everyone agreed that getting the angel out of the house and putting it in temporary storage was infinitely better than being in close proximity to it. Now that they had a plan, the Doctor decided George should know about it, as well. He was about to leave the room when Amy stopped him cold.

"Hold it right there! Bob and I have been watching this angel for hours. If anyone's going outside, it's us. We deserve a break."

Arguing with Amelia Pond was as futile as trying to befriend a Dalek. The Doctor stepped aside so Amy and Bob could walk past him. Once they were gone, the Doctor assumed their role as angel watcher.

After spending most of the day trapped in one room, performing the exact same activity with few deviations, Amy and Bob were beyond relieved to stretch their legs and get a change of scenery. Though Bob had lived in the neighborhood all his twelve years, the angels had rebooted his perspective of it. He usually regarded the quiet town as painfully boring; all of a sudden, he was thrilled to see the rows of houses, fences and privets. He was thankful to see the neighborhood filled with ordinary people and not overrun by evil angels from outer space.

"I can't believe this!" Amy said, snapping Bob out of his sentimental woolgathering.

"What?"

"The Doctor's left George lying on the ground!" Amy knew the Doctor had the capacity for great rudeness, but letting people lie where they'd fallen was unacceptable.

George could hear two pairs of feet rush towards him. He wished they'd leave him alone. He ached all over, in places he didn't even know could register pain, and laying still and flat helped him manage the worst of it. He didn't want to get up, and he especially didn't want to go back into that house. He much preferred remaining outside on the lawn like a particularly large, beaten gnome.

Amy crouched down in front of the fallen man. He made no attempt to rise, and that concerned Amy. A normal person didn't just topple out of his vehicle and then accept his new position on the ground.

"That's blood." Bob pointed to a stiff patch of hair on the side of George's head.

"The angel knocked me into a pew, and I hit my head. Your bloody Doctor used a pair of socks to stop the bleeding. He got them from his pocket," George said.

"You've got head injuries and the Doctor couldn't even help you into the house? I am _so_ telling River about his fezzes," Amy muttered.

"It isn't his fault. He was so worried about you two, and I told him to go without me. It would have taken me twenty minutes to shuffle to the door."

"He could have at least gotten you back into the truck. Here, let us help you." Amy took hold of George's left arm and Bob took the right.

George moaned in agony as Amy and Bob lifted him. Shifting his aching head even a little upgraded the pain from bad to staggering. It was like the absolute worst hangover of his life multiplied by fifty. The pain in the rest of his body didn't even bare contemplation.

Supported between Amy and Bob, George was able to hobble the short distance to the front door. Amy managed to get the door open and, with some skillful maneuvering, everyone was able to squeeze inside. George continued to groan like Frankenstein's monster and it took all of Amy's willpower not to let her sympathy turn into annoyance.

"Let's put him on the sofa," Amy said.

Bob and Amy steered George around the weeping angel and coffee table and over to the sofa. George had never been so happy to feel the cheap sofa beneath his bottom. He stretched out and discovered, much to his satisfaction, the sofa was infinitely more comfortable than the grass. Getting to the sofa had been well worth the pain and pitiful moans.

"I'm going to take a stab in the dark and say George isn't going to be able to participate in the plan," the Doctor said. Nothing that moaned like that was good for anything except painkillers, hot tea, and several days' worth of bed rest.

"What plan?" George asked with trepidation. He was fed up with the Doctor's plans. They involved terror, and alien possession and breaking the sound barrier in a truck.

"We're going to move this angel," the Doctor pointed to make sure everyone knew which snarling statue he was talking about, "to live with its mates. And then, before Saturday, we're going to move them all someplace else. I don't know where yet."

"Yes, I don't think I want any part of that." Nothing except a team of horses was going to force George off the sofa.

"Everyone else, we've got to move quickly. Eleanor, can you drive? Good. Go and move George's truck as close to the door as possible. Bob, run upstairs and fetch my lever. See if you can't find the skateboard while you're at it. Amy, stay here and help me watch the angel so I don't get lonely."

Eleanor and Bob moved out. Though she'd never driven a pickup truck before, Eleanor managed to avoid ramming it into the wall or running over any of Molly's beloved decorative plants. Bob hustled upstairs, found the lever the Doctor had bodged together earlier, and grabbed it. On his way back, Bob noticed a vast area of carpet outside the bathroom was wet. He hadn't yet seen the damage the angel had wrought on the plumbing, though he had been struck in the head by a chunk of some bathroom fixture, and he couldn't resist the urge to pop in for a quick peek.

The loo was a complete disaster area, simultaneously the victim of a flood and a powerful psychopath's wrath. Bob had never seen a room so totally destroyed, not even his own. Compared to the debris field that had once been the loo, Bob's room was neat, orderly, and not about to breed new species of mold spore.

Bob closed the door to the loo, and descended the stairs with the lever tucked under his arm. He handed the steel rod and porcelain fulcrum to the Doctor, and then hunted for the skateboard. Eleanor's unexpected arrival had surprised Amy and Bob so badly they'd both blinked. In that one second, the angel had managed to slash through most of the duct tape and had knocked the skateboard away. Bob, after a little searching, found the board in one piece behind the television.

By the time Bob had retrieved the skateboard, Eleanor had finished her task. She entered the room just in time to see the Doctor point some strange, buzzing object at her brother's prized board. He held the strange object against both front wheels, gave each wheel a spin, and then replaced the object in his pocket.

"They aren't wobbly anymore, at least. I can't sonic the rest of the board—it's wood—but I don't think the wheels will fall off," the Doctor said.

With the skateboard repaired to the best of his abilities, the Doctor handed it over to Bob. He then carefully constructed the lever. Once that was done, it was time for the angel to ride again.

"Amy, Bob, same as last time. Eleanor, help me stabilize the angel," the Doctor said.

An additional pair of steadying arms made an enormous difference. In hardly half the time and with far fewer near-disasters, the angel was resting on the skateboard. Eleanor couldn't stop laughing at the horrific figure atop her brother's board. She reached into her pocket and drew out her mobile. Even if she never intended to share the photo, she wanted one for posterity.

There were four simultaneous cries of "NO!" Eleanor found her phone torn from her hands and, before she could stop him, Bob had thrown it against the wall and smashed it.

"Why'd you do that, you little bugger?" Eleanor demanded.

"I just saved the world!" Bob proclaimed.

Eleanor smacked him. Bob considered it a small price to pay for the bragging rights of Earth's savior.

* * *

TBC

AN: Thanks for the clarification on trucks. It was thorough…very, very thorough. I suppose it would have been infinitely easier to just ask if everyone understood what a pickup truck was. Oh well.


	20. With a Little Help from my Friends

Thanks for all the reviews!

On the subject of angels and darkness, which was raised in a few reviews, I offer this theory: weeping angels have night vision. Even if it's not Who-canon (and I believe there's evidence it is), in this fic weeping angels can see in the dark.

And before we get back into it, let me just say that it feels awesome to be able to write simply for pleasure again. Churning out 15 pages of a final report in one night because you are a procrastinating moron really, really sucks. Don't do it, kids.

Okay, public service message over!

* * *

Once the Doctor explained to Eleanor why weeping angels made the worst photography subjects, she forgave Bob for smashing her expensive mobile to pieces. Yes, she figured, her idiot brother could have just shut the phone off, but he had always acted before his brain could fully consider the consequences of his actions. She couldn't really blame him for acting as he was programmed to act, or for taking extreme measures to keep any more angels from being born.

Now that peace had been restored and Eleanor was wiser, it was time to get the whole team moving. Nightfall was creeping ever closer, and the angel needed to be with its fellows before it became too dark to see. Things wouldn't have been so urgent if there'd been a full moon, but the Doctor, unless he was mistaken and he never was about these sorts of things, knew the moon had fully waned. There would be only the stars, and they weren't nearly enough.

"Bob, hold the door open. Eleanor and Pond, help me push," the Doctor said.

"Doctor, I don't think this is going to work," Amy replied.

"Why not? We pushed the angel before."

"Yes, but that was only down the stairs. Look at the doorframe. The angel's wings will never fit through; they're much too wide."

The Doctor examined the angel's wingspan and compared it to the width of the doorframe. He quickly concluded Amy was right. The weeping angel had foiled his plan.

"Okay, who's got an axe handy? Or a chainsaw? Chainsaw'd be better, but we haven't got time to be picky."

Eleanor and Bob couldn't help. According to Eleanor, her mother didn't even trust Bob with the hoover, let alone with anything sharp enough to sever a foot. Amy sarcastically offered to check her pockets and produced eighty-five pence, a scrap of paper, and some lint. Unless the angel was willing to accept the paltriest bribe in history, Amy's pockets had failed.

"George?" The Doctor's plan hinged on the pitiful, tortured lump sprawled out on the sofa.

"I've got nothing, unless you can cut through the wall with Molly's pruning shears. They're dull," George replied.

A feeling of desperation that the Doctor was well-accustomed to began to creep into his chest. He needed to get the angel through the door, but its wings were too broad, he had no available power tools to widen the doorframe, and the sun hadn't decided to slow its descent. If he tried to turn the angel sideways, it would probably fall off the board and crush someone's feet, or the abused skateboard would give a resigned crack and break in half. Either way, the angel would still be inside.

"It came in through the kitchen wall, didn't it? Why don't we just shove it out the same way? I can move the truck into the garden, and we can push the angel into the back," Eleanor suggested.

"Eleanor, you're wonderful. Did I give you a nickname yet? Elegant Eleanor. No, not good enough. Enormous Eleanor. Doesn't seem appropriate. Excellent Eleanor. Exquisite Eleanor. Extraordinary Eleanor. I like that one. Extraordinary Eleanor."

Blushing and immensely pleased by the Doctor's praise, Eleanor hurried outside to George's truck. While she drove it around the house and into the garden, Amy and the Doctor turned the angel towards the kitchen. Bob followed close behind, and made sure he kept his eyes on the angel. If Amy and the Doctor both happened to blink, he would be there to ensure the angel didn't go flying off.

The kitchen was in shambles, and debris from the wall was strewn across the floor. The Doctor had to call a temporary halt so a path could be cleared through the rubble. While Amy picked up the largest chunks of wood and plaster and disposed of them in the bin, Bob searched for a broom. He found one and swept away the smaller splinters. Once a safety corridor had been created, Amy rejoined the Doctor and they pushed the angel until it was in front of the gaping hole it had created in the wall.

"Ready out there?" the Doctor called.

"I ran over a bowl of petunias! Sorry!" Eleanor replied.

"That's alright; we can plant some new ones. Are you in position?"

"I'm as close as I can get without running into the wall."

"Good. On the count of three, push for all you're worth, Amy."

At three, Amy and the Doctor strained against the stone angel. They managed to tip it backwards, where its outstretched wings caught on the edge of the hole. It hung there, like a body in suspended animation, while the Doctor muttered darkly at it. Of course the bloody angel couldn't have bored a nice, neat little perfectly square hole! No, that would be far too easy! The hole had to have sorts of irregularities and jutting bits of wall and only a portion of it was actually wide enough to admit those damned wings.

"The hole's wider farther down. Trying tipping the angel more," Bob suggested.

"That won't work. If we tilt it any lower, it'll headbutt the tailgate," the Doctor responded.

"So what are we going to do, Doctor?" Amy asked.

"You'll be the second person to know, Pond."

The Doctor, like an inept burglar, began to ransack the kitchen for anything that could help get the angel unstuck. He discovered a meat-tenderizer that he mistook for a torture device for a moment, and then once he realized Molly had pounded steaks and not hands with it, he slipped it into his pocket. He wasn't sure how effective the mallet would be against a solid wall, but it had to be better than nothing.

By the time the Doctor finished his search, all the cabinet and cupboard doors stood open, most of the drawers had been entirely emptied of their contents, and silverware, pots and pans, and dishes were strewn across the countertops. For all the mess he created, the Doctor found very little to stuff into his pockets. Molly had amassed quite the collection of cooking instruments, but a garlic press, ladle, and cutting board were of little use at the moment.

"Everyone, stand back. I am going to…tenderize the wall. Brilliant. This is really going to work." The Doctor glared scornfully at the little meat mallet, as though everything was its fault.

"We're going to die," Bob said.

"Yep," Amy agreed.

In frustration, the Doctor hurled the tenderizer at the weeping angel. It struck the statue's wing and ricocheted off without doing the slightest damage. That only served to infuriate the Doctor further. He stormed over to the angel and began shouting at it, as though words could somehow hurt it when nothing else could.

"This isn't fair! You're nothing more than a sentient boulder! You're dirt that hasn't eroded yet! I shouldn't be in this situation! I shouldn't be reducing to tearing apart a dead woman's kitchen and finding nothing better than a little hammer! I—" The Doctor froze in mid-rant, his finger pointed at the angel and his teeth bared in a snarl.

The Doctor, without a word, turned away and ran from the room. Amy and Bob were left in a state of nervous confusion.

George tried to sit up when he saw the Doctor run by, but a horrible pain in the general area of his entire body kept his flat on his back. He wouldn't be going anywhere or fighting any killer aliens for the foreseeable future.

The Doctor slowed down only to open the front door, and then went sprinting madly around the house. Eleanor leaned her head out the window to ask what was taking so long, but the Doctor offered no reply. Instead, he crouched down briefly to examine an area of flattened grass and then began frantically scouring the propinquity.

"What are you doing, Doctor Bowtie?" Eleanor asked. "We don't have time to waste."

"Hammer, hammer, she said she had a hammer in the yard. Molly's silver hammer. Don't sue me, McCartney, I changed the lyrics," the Doctor muttered.

"We definitely don't have time for you to go off your trolley!"

"Molly just saved us all! Thank you! I'm sorry I couldn't do the same for you."

Wearing a grin that belonged on the psychopathic antagonist of a horror movie—and clutching a weapon that would have also been appropriate—the Doctor retraced his path and headed back to the kitchen. When George saw what the Doctor was holding, he forgot the lesson he'd learned barely a minute ago and tried to sit up again. The shock of pain flattened him once more.

"As I was saying, I'm going to tenderize the wall," the Doctor said. He hefted the sledgehammer over his shoulder and Bob and Amy cheered him on.

A few swings of the hammer took out enough of the wall to finally get those flightless, troublesome wings freed. The angel, its support gone, fell backwards and came to rest at a tilt against the tailgate. The Doctor, humming with manic energy, went on another mad dash, this time to get his lever. All the angel needed was one final, little boost to get it into the back of the truck, and the Time Lord was only too happy to provide it.

Wedging his lever underneath the angel, the Doctor raised it just enough to topple it into the truck bed. Eleanor felt the rear of the vehicle dip as it bore the heavy load, and knew the angel was aboard. She looked behind her and saw the stone creature laying face down and immobile.

"Eleanor, keep your eyes on the angel. We're coming out," the Doctor said.

Amy, Bob, and the Doctor all ducked down and crawled through the hole in the wall. Once they were out, the Doctor quickly assigned them seats and jobs. Bob would join his sister in the front, and, since she had to drive and keep her eyes on the road, he would watch the angel. The Doctor informed Amy that she would join him in the back and keep the angel company. Amy politely pointed out that the cab still had plenty of room for another passenger, it was getting cold, and if Eleanor had to come to a sudden stop, the angel would slide forward and crush whoever was dumb enough to sit with it. The Doctor allowed her to change her seat, even if it meant he would be lonely.

Abandoned by his Pond, the Doctor had no choice but to hop into the bed with the angel. He raised the tailgate so the angel wouldn't go sliding out onto the street, and then tried to get comfortable. He sat down with his back against the cab, but Amy knocked against the window.

"Your stupid head is in the way. I can't see the angel," Amy complained.

"My head isn't stupid; that's Rory's head."

"His head has nice hair, at least."

The Doctor's hearts broke. First his Pond left him out in the cold like an unwanted dog, and then she insulted his mutilated hair. He turned towards her and gave her the most pitiful, puppy-dog eyes he could muster. She told him she still couldn't see. He told her they weren't friends anymore. She replied that it was very sad their friendship had to end, but that didn't make his head any more transparent. He slunk away to sit behind Eleanor.

"Are we ready to go?" Eleanor asked.

The Doctor raised a feeble thumbs-up and the truck began to creep forward. Eleanor avoided destroying any more of Molly's annuals, and made it to the street without a problem. Once she had the open road ahead of her, Eleanor sped up. She had to beat the sunset, and though the church was close, so was nightfall.

Taking the streets at three times the legal speed limit had been much more fun and exciting, the Doctor thought. And the company had certainly been better before, as well. Even if George had curled up in mortal terror of the Doctor's reckless driving, he'd still been more pleasant than the weeping angel. Driving, incidentally, was also several million times better than being the passenger. And being inside the cab with your mates was infinitely better than being outside with a psychotic space degenerate that wanted to kill you.

By the time Eleanor pulled up to the church, the Doctor's list of reasons he hated the trip had grown large enough to fill a series of encyclopedias. He was in the middle of mentally kvetching about weeping angels and airline peanuts when the truck came to a stop. That rattled him out of his broodiness.

"Excellent piloting, Eleanor. Now, don't all rush out at once. Eleanor, you can get out first. Then come around and help me keep an eye on our friend. Bob and Amy, once Eleanor is with me, you can get out. At no time is the angel to have any less than two sets of eyes on it," the Doctor instructed.

Eleanor turned off the truck and did as the Doctor said. Amy and Bob joined her a few seconds later. Once everyone was assembled, the Doctor spelled out the rest of the plan.

"We've got to get the angel into the church, where the other two are waiting. They're looking at each other, and they'll harmless. You three are going to stand back a little, and I'm going to push the angel onto the ground. Then we're going to right it, and skateboard it inside," the Doctor said.

Amy was kind enough to lower the tailgate before she, along with Eleanor and Bob, stepped back and out of the drop zone. The way now cleared of people, the Doctor pressed his shoulder against the angel's wing and pushed for all he was worth. The angel slid forward with all the speed of an elderly snail, but at least it moved.

"Doctor, if you don't push harder, we're going to be doing this by candlelight. And I forgot the candles," Amy said.

"It's heavy!" the Doctor snapped.

"And it's getting dark."

The Doctor found a bit of reticent strength somewhere and managed to push the angel a bit faster. He finally got enough of it hanging over the tailgate for gravity to do the rest for him. The angel landed in the grass.

"No time to waste. Everyone, grab an arm or wing and get it upright," the Doctor said.

The four of them combined were able to raise the angel from the ground after much sweating, swearing, and muscle-straining. The skateboard creaked ominously, and the Doctor ordered them to push the angel before the board collapsed beneath its burden. Pushing the skateboard through the grass was difficult and slow work, and by the time they arrived at the locked doors of the church, they could hardly see the angel in front of their faces.

The doors were no match for the sonic screwdriver. The Doctor had them standing open in a second and Amy, Bob and Eleanor were able to push the angel through the threshold. Inside, the church was so filled with gloom the pair of angels was visible only as faint shapes in the darkness.

"Go!" The skateboard was pushed to its furthest limits as the angel was driven forward.

The Doctor used his sonic screwdriver to produce a guiding circle of light. He led the others to the trapped angels, and began to measure angles. He needed to get the new angel into one of the existing angel's line of sight, without breaking the eye contact the original pair maintained with each other. It would be a stupendous waste of effort if he was able to freeze the new angel, but accidentally set one of the old angels free.

"Bring it here. No, a little to the right. A little more. If you value your life, don't bump this angel into that one."

After a series of miniscule adjustments, the Doctor declared himself satisfied. The angels stood in a scalene triangle, each perpetually frozen by another's gaze. At least the Doctor hoped so. It was, he supposed, entirely possible that the newest angel was just beyond the others' line of sight. If that was the case, the second it was left alone, it would free its compatriots and start a new reign of terror.

"Only one way to be certain," the Doctor said.

"Only one way to be certain of _what_?" Amy asked.

"That they're properly positioned."

"And how do you do that?"

"Like this." The Doctor clicked off his sonic screwdriver and the church plunged into blackness.

* * *

TBC

Molly's silver hammer is an allusion to the Beatles song "Maxwell's Silver Hammer," which was written by Paul McCartney.


	21. All Aboard the Good Ship TARDIS

Thanks for the reviews!

I've got some fun news for this chapter. Things didn't work out exactly how I originally planned, so Rory's actually going to show up soon. How soon? Now! Well, not right this very second, but in this chapter.

* * *

A hand, hopefully a human hand, slapped the Doctor across the face. The same hand then started groping him. It grabbed at his chest—he thanked his lucky stars this regeneration wasn't a girl—found nothing to hang onto, and then went creeping along his arm. By this point, he was relatively certain the hand was human, and that it was intent on finding a specific part of his body. He wasn't sure what particular body part that was, and he felt it would be a traumatizing experience for both himself and the owner of the hand if the hand were to grab the wrong bit. He decided to give the hand a little help, and clicked the sonic screwdriver back on.

The second the green glow returned, the screwdriver was yanked out of his hand by a furious Amy Pond. She raised her free hand, intending to slap the Doctor again, and he cowered in response. His cheek was still smarting from the first blow, and at that moment, the expression on Amy's face made a weeping angel's snarl look inviting.

Amy's open palm quivered and the Doctor thought, despite his repentant visage, she was going to hit him. Then Amy clenched her hand into a fist, and the Doctor thought he was going to be punched, which would probably hurt worse. He was immensely relieved when, instead of striking him, Amy dropped her hand down to her side.

"You should be ashamed of yourself!" Amy shouted. "You could have just killed us all!"

"But I had to know…" The Doctor instantly regretted defending himself.

"Then you should have given us a chance to get out! If you want to turn off the lights while you're surrounded by weeping angels, don't drag the rest of us into it! Look what you did to Bob and Eleanor!"

Eleanor had just realized the angels weren't going to tear her limb from limb, and had lifted her head. It was impossible to know what condition Bob was in, because his sister had covered him with her body. She apparently still loved her brother—even if he was a destructive little wanker—enough to serve as his human shield.

"Lemme up. I can't breathe!" Bob said, gasping.

"Sorry." Eleanor sat up and Bob crawled away from her. She'd practically tackled him, and had then served as the world's heaviest blanket, and now his head hurt again. He'd been able to forget about his injury up until that point, but the old headache was back.

"Doctor Bowtie, that was naff," Bob said.

"No, the hideous shoes Mum bought are naff. _That_ was horrible. Absolutely bloody inexcusable," Eleanor said.

The Doctor felt lower than a worm. He had, with one incredibly stupid and impulsive move, managed to make everyone angry with him. There had to be some way to fix this.

"I can make it up to you," the Doctor promised.

"Are you going to let me play with that brilliant screwdriver?" Bob asked.

"Even better! I'm going to show you my spaceship. Which also travels in time. And has a swimming pool."

Bob had died and gone to heaven. He wasn't sure how long he'd been dead, or what had killed him, but there was no way anyone on Earth would ever speak those words to him. It was like every good dream he'd ever had, plus Han Solo offering him a tour of the _Millennium Falcon_.

"I love you," Bob said, adoration shining in his eyes.

"Oh, yes, well, that's very nice, Bob. I'm glad we've patched things up so quickly," the Doctor said.

"Do you really mean it? I believe you're an alien—and I know those angels aren't from Earth—but you aren't going to…probe us or something?" Eleanor asked.

"I've never probed anyone. Not intentionally, at least. There was that one time, but I swear I didn't know what that button was for or what sort of hobbies they had on that planet."

"I'm glad I wasn't on that adventure," Amy muttered. Eleanor and Bob might have melted at the word "spaceship" but Amy didn't intend to let the Doctor get off that easily. She planned to stay cross at him for some time, until he realized how stupid he'd been. It wouldn't change him, or make him less spontaneous, but he deserved to feel bad for terrifying his friends.

With Eleanor's probing fears dispelled, she was more than willing to see the Doctor's spaceship. Bob shifted with a restlessness that suggested his feet were being held to hot coals, so the Doctor decided it was time to get to the TARDIS. Since Amy had kidnapped the sonic screwdriver, their sole source of light, the Doctor prodded her to head towards the door. Amy marched forward, eager to escape the gloomy confines of the church.

Once they were outside, the Doctor confiscated his screwdriver and used it to lock the church doors. The moonless night was dark enough to require further use of the sonic screwdriver as a torch, and the Doctor held it aloft while everyone else crowded around its circle of green light. Green, in Bob's opinion, wasn't a particularly good color for a torch to glow. It made everyone look like a zombie, radioactive, or about to vomit.

"This time, I'm going to drive. Eleanor, the keys." The Doctor held out his hand and Eleanor dropped the keys into his palm.

Nobody had to sit in the back this time—they'd almost surely be ejected and killed by the Doctor's driving skills if they did—though that did leave them all uncomfortably squeezed. Eleanor and Bob were sandwiched in the middle, the Doctor could barely move his arms to steer, and Amy felt like every contour of the door was being permanently imbedded in her side. The Doctor wasted no time pushing the truck to speeds that were legal nowhere. If everyone was too terrified to do anything except scream, they wouldn't be able to complain about the cramped conditions.

The Doctor misjudged his passengers. Amy was used to being flung about at high speeds—she'd been travelling the universe with the Doctor long enough to know his driving habits—and Bob and Eleanor found breaking the speed limit exhilarating. Even if they couldn't properly inflate their lungs, they could still grin.

"Geronimo!" the Doctor shouted.

Bob and Eleanor echoed the Doctor. Amy couldn't help herself; no matter how much she wanted to disapprove of the Doctor treating other people's vehicles like his TARDIS, she added her own excited cry. There was no denying the rush that accompanied the Doctor's mad piloting skills.

All too soon, the thrilling portion of the ride was over. The Doctor slowed down and squinted out the windscreen as though he was new to the area, completely lost, and looking for a street marker.

"There it is!" Amy said suddenly, pointing at a house.

"Why are we here? Oh, I get it! You've disguised your ship so it won't look suspicious. Let me guess. It's that car. No, it's that tree. Wait, it's got to be that dustbin!" Bob said.

"A dustbin? Really, Bob? You think I can't do any better than a dustbin?" the Doctor asked.

"So it's the car?"

"It's none of the above. Everyone out."

Amy and the Doctor exited, and Eleanor and Bob groaned with relief. They were no longer being crushed like an anaconda's victim, and it was lovely to be able to draw a full breath without feeling an elbow jabbing them in the ribs.

The sonic screwdriver was brought out again. Once it was lit, everyone crowded around the Doctor and his buzzing green torch. He shepherded them towards the house, and led them around to the garden.

"There she is, my sexy blue box," the Doctor said, motioning to a small structure Bob had mistaken for a shed.

"It's a…police box?" Eleanor asked as the form of the TARDIS became clearer. "Isn't that a bit conspicuous, though? I mean, when was the last time you saw a police box sitting in the garden?"

"When was the last time you saw a police box anywhere?" Bob added.

"Oi! Don't be rude," the Doctor scolded.

"But—"

"No more questions, just get in." The Doctor unlocked the doors and walked in. Amy followed. Bob and Eleanor exchanged confused looks. Could four people even fit inside a box so small?

They'd never find out if they stood outside, so the pair of them entered together. The moment they stepped through the threshold, Eleanor and Bob were completely overwhelmed. Eleanor was so stunned she found herself unable to stand and had to rely on her brother for support. He, being the dutiful younger brother, failed to catch her and she fell on her backside.

"As I always say, it's bigger on the—"

"Where have you been? It's been eight hours! Eight! I thought you'd either died or run off together and left me alone!"

"Rory! You ruined it." The Doctor turned to face the shouting man who was rapidly approaching and growing increasingly loud.

"Ruined what? Who are these people? Doctor, what have you been up to?" Rory demanded.

"Up to? Me? Nothing."

"Oh my God, what happened to your hair? And your shirt? Is that blood?"

"Rory—"

"You've put my wife in danger again, haven't you? Amy, tell me what happened."

The Doctor turned to Amy and pressed a finger to his lips. She glared; did he think she was stupid? She knew if Rory learned his wife had spent all day battling one of the universe's deadliest creatures, he would probably rupture something in his brain.

"It was nothing," Amy said, trying to dismiss the issue entirely.

"Nothing took his shirt, hacked off his hair, and invited those two, whoever they are, onto the TARDIS?" Rory wasn't so thick that he couldn't tell when Amy was being purposely evasive.

"Alright, it was just a wee bit of trouble. Nothing serious."

The Doctor interjected, "and those two are Brilliant Bob and Extraordinary Eleanor."

Bob and Eleanor waved. Rory, as confused and exasperated as he was, returned the gesture.

The Doctor saw an opportunity to get himself out of trouble and put off the row with Rory he knew was coming. He scurried back to Bob and took the boy by the hand. He led him up to Rory, and pointed at Bob's head.

"He hit his head a few hours ago. Fix it," the Doctor said.

"Why didn't you take him to the hospital a few hours ago, then?" Rory asked.

"Because I was busy."

"That's an awful excuse."

"There were extenuating circumstances. Things and stuff like that."

"He could have died from a fractured skull."

"That's what I said to Amy. I told her to get Bob and run but she was wouldn't listen. She's a stubborn Pond."

"But what would she have to run from? Was something chasing you?"

"No! It already had me by the neck and…ooh, I did not mean to say that." The Doctor winced at his uncontrollable gob.

Things might have turned quite nasty if Bob hadn't displayed a latent talent for acting. He clutched his head, moaned, and swayed on his feet. Rory's medical training kicked in and he grabbed Bob before he could collapse. As Rory fussed, Bob looked over at the Doctor and mouthed "you owe me". The Doctor flashed him an appreciative thumbs-up.

"Don't worry, Bob, you'll be just fine. I'm a nurse, and I've got the documentation to prove it. Unlike some people," Rory said.

"I have never claimed to be a nurse. A patient, yeah, loads of times, but never a nurse."

Rory led Bob to the TARDIS' medical bay. Bob, live an invalid, leaned on Rory for support he didn't really need. Their proximity gave Bob the opportunity to notice something strange about Rory. His fingertips were blue.

"What happened to your hand? Did you freeze it or something?" Bob asked.

Rory looked down at his own hand. "No, I ate some alien fruit. Turned me bright blue. I spent all day coughing up blue slime, and now I'm nearly cured. It's lingering in my fingers and toes, though."

"Do you have any left?"

"The alien fruit? No. Why?"

"I want to look like a Na'vi."

The Doctor had definitely brought a teenage maniac aboard, not that Rory was surprised. Bob and the Doctor probably got on like best friends.

With Rory properly distracted and Bob in good, albeit blue-tinged, hands, the Doctor was able to get down to business. He hopped over to the central control panel and began to press buttons. Things got interesting on the TARDIS when the Doctor's fingers got busy.

"Quick, grab onto something!" Amy cried.

"It's going to be a smooth landing, Pond. We're only going a few streets over," the Doctor said.

"We're going to end up on the moon. Definitely hold onto something," Amy said to Eleanor.

The Doctor rolled his eyes. He'd been driving the TARDIS for hundreds of years. Nobody was better at it than him. River Song liked to pretend she knew what she was doing, but there was no competing with the Doctor. Confidently, the Doctor pulled a lever and the sentient ship lurched forward.

"Where are going?" Amy asked.

"To get George."

"Why?"

"Because he's injured enough to keep Rory busy for ages. And because it's the right thing to do. And because I need to fix his plumbing before his house floods. Now let's hope we don't materialize in the closet."

The TARDIS made her usual whooshing noise—a brilliant noise, no matter what River said—and landed with a gentle bump. As far as landings went, Amy rated this one in the top three. Nobody was thrown across the room, nobody fell down the stairs, and nothing started sparking or caught on fire.

The Doctor ran across the control room and to the doors. He threw them open and came face to face with a wall. There was enough room between the wall and the doors for him to squeeze through. He did just that and discovered he'd managed to land the TARDIS in the middle of George's living room. It may have crushed the coffee table, but at least it had missed George by a fair amount. The screaming George was doing suggested he had other opinions.

"Hello, George, I've come to collect you," the Doctor said.

"Ahh!"

"Yes, I heard. Now hobble into my ship so we can go."

"Ahh!"

"Come on, it wasn't _that_ close."

The screaming abruptly stopped as George swooned and fell back against the couch in a dead faint. The Doctor sighed and walked over to George's unconscious body. While George wasn't a particularly large man, he wasn't a feather, either. There was nothing to be done about it, either way. The Doctor grabbed George around the middle, heaved him off the couch, and dragged him into the TARDIS.

* * *

TBC!

On the off chance someone was living under a rock for the past two years, the Na'vi were the big, blue people from _Avatar_.


	22. In Space!

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Rory heard the Doctor call his name but chose to ignore it. He was busy assessing his patient's condition, and if he left Bob alone even long enough to see what the Doctor wanted, he'd almost certainly come back to find Bob playing with a laser scalpel or some other futuristic instrument that Rory couldn't operate. Even though Rory had known Bob for only a few minutes, he could tell just by looking at him that Bob was the type of kid who attracted trouble like a magnet attracted iron filings.

"How did you get involved with the Doctor and whatever he was doing?" Rory asked. During his travels with the Time Lord, Rory had seen the Doctor make some unusual friends, but teenage boys weren't often included in the Doctor's schemes.

"My neighbor told me he wanted to borrow my skateboard and it doesn't go anywhere I don't," Bob replied. "I thought he was going to break his hip trying to ride it, or flog it 'cause he needed money for some dodgy reason. He really needed it because the Doctor wanted it, but I didn't know it then."

Rory sensed an opportunity. If he was careful with his questioning, he could perhaps wheedle the entire story out of Bob.

"And what did the Doctor need it for?" Rory inquired casually.

"Brilliant stuff."

"Can you get any more specific?"

"Madly brilliant stuff."

Bob was apparently in on the conspiracy. Rory, disappointed, went back to probing at the laceration on the kid's scalp.

"Whose idea of first aid was a towel?" Rory decided to get some background information and keep away from the topic of the Doctor, at least for a while.

"Mrs. Mason's. I was bleeding all over her kitchen, and it was the only thing she could use," Bob said.

"What hit you in the first place?"

"Bit of the toilet or the sink."

"How did you get hit by a piece of the toilet or the sink?"

"It was thrown at me."

"Rory! I've got another one for you." The Doctor, propping up an unconscious body, appeared at the head of the medical bay.

"That's George, the neighbor who wanted my skateboard," Bob said. "He got hit on the head as well, but not by the toilet."

Rory raced over to help George and get him out of the Doctor's hands before something happened to him. Together, Rory and the Doctor lifted George onto an empty bed. Once George was safely off the floor, Rory turned around to confront the Doctor.

"You can't drop seriously injured people at my feet and then refuse to tell me how they got that way! It isn't fair and I'm not equipped to deal with it. I'm a nurse; I used to watch coma patients all day. I can't be expected to check for skull fractures and intracranial hemorrhages and whatever other horrible things happen to people when you're around."

The Doctor proved that he, too, could puff himself up like an agitated cat. "I'll have you know that I _can_, in fact, drop seriously injured people at your feet and will continue to do so until I run out of them. Which I have, for now. So nurse these two back to health and whatever George blames on me when he wakes up, he's lying or delusional."

Leaving a fuming Rory behind him, the Doctor marched out of the room. He still had one small matter to take care of—the growing lake in the Masons' loo—and he had to get it sorted out before George awoke. The Doctor wanted to be there to defend himself when George spilled every last intimate detail of the day.

On his way to the TARDIS' console, the Doctor popped into a few auxiliary rooms and filled his pockets with tools. Unlike Molly's kitchen, the TARDIS was brimming with useful tools and components. Had he been able to reach his ship's arsenal, the Doctor would have had no problem finding something more than capable of demolishing a wall.

Amy and Eleanor found a wonderful way to entertain each other: they told personal and embarrassing stories about Bob and Rory. Eleanor was in the middle of recalling Bob's unfortunate, short-lived love affair with curry when the Doctor traipsed in, sonic screwdriver in one hand, spanner in the other. He had somewhere traded his well-worn shoes for Wellington boots, and looked content with the change. Amy had a bad feeling about the boots. First had come the bowties, then the fezzes, and now it looked as though the Doctor had found his next style disaster.

"Don't worry, this won't take long. If there's one thing I'm good for, it's repairs," the Doctor said.

"I always thought it was breaking things so they needed repairs," Amy whispered to Eleanor, who giggled.

Once the Doctor had gone off to do battle with the plumbing, the two women returned to their tales. Eleanor learned that Rory had, in a doomed but sweet romantic gesture, attempted to make a bouquet of flowers nicked from a gardener who, in his spare time, took karate lessons. After the laughter died down, Eleanor destroyed her little brother's dignity by sharing the time he was chased through the neighborhood by a cat.

Before Amy could think of a suitable follow-up story, the TARDIS doors burst open and the Doctor strode in. He looked like he'd engaged in mortal combat with Davy Jones, and had barely avoided being dragged to a watery grave. He was thoroughly soaked, his boots squelched with each step, and a trail of puddles preceded him. Despite this, he looked thrilled.

"I just went swimming," the Doctor said. "Almost, anyway. I suppose it was more along the lines of flopping around like a fish, but it was still fun."

The Doctor walked off, shedding water as he went. Amy hoped he had the consideration to mop up the puddles he made, though he'd probably forget about them until they evaporated on their own. She considered looking for wet floor signs, but figured the Doctor wouldn't have anything so safety-conscious.

As much fun as being soaked to the skin was, the Doctor didn't want to drip all over the TARDIS console. There was always the danger a stray droplet would cause a short circuit or electrocute someone. He retreated to the wardrobe to find some new, dry clothes. And a new bowtie. Couldn't forget that.

Ten minutes later, the Doctor reemerged with an almost identical tweed jacket, shirt and trousers, and no less than twenty bowties hanging off his arms. Amy raised her eyebrows and prayed the Doctor didn't plan to wear all the bowties at once.

"I can't decide," the Doctor said. "Help me choose."

Amy and Eleanor forgot all about their conversation and approached the Doctor. He held his arms out straight to properly display each and every bowtie. The women each took an arm and began sorting through the ties.

There were solid, striped, and spotted bowties. There were color combinations that coordinated, and others that clashed so horribly Amy demanded the Doctor never wear them, not even if every other bowtie in the universe met with an unfortunate end. Amy grabbed a bowtie that was dangling from the Doctor's wrist and examined it closely. She covered her mouth to stifle her laughter and handed the tie over to Eleanor.

"A pink cat-print bowtie? Who gave you that, Dolores Umbridge?" Amy asked.

"No. If you're only going to laugh, give it back," the Doctor said.

"It's cute, but I don't think it's appropriate. Housecats, especially on a pink background, aren't something I'd wear while fighting evil angels," Eleanor said.

"Then which one would you wear?"

Eleanor pointed to a solid red bowtie. "Red's a fierce color."

The Doctor glanced at his redheaded companion. Yes, red was indeed a fierce color, and he was proud to wear it. He dropped the other bowties into his spacious pockets before securing the red bowtie around his neck.

"Very nice, Doctor," Amy said.

Properly dressed once more—and not soaking the TARDIS with each step—the Doctor was ready to remove his ship from George's house. He moved to the TARDIS' control panel and pressed a sequence of buttons. The ship shuddered, which signaled Amy and Eleanor to grab onto the nearest handrails. The Doctor gave a lever a yank and the TARDIS disappeared with a whoosh.

"Where are we going?" Amy asked.

"Space!"

"Where in space?"

"Nowhere! Just space in general. I didn't bother setting specific coordinates."

"Why not?"

"Because we don't need them. We just need a quiet, empty patch of universe where we can do stuff."

"But what kind of stuff?"

"I'm going to plan and grow my hair back, George is going to heal and grieve and do whatever else he needs to do, Bob is going to enjoy being in space, you are going to scowl at me, Rory is going to plot my murder, and Eleanor is going to do whatever she feels like because I don't know her well enough to tell her what to do."

"Why would Rory plot your murder?"

"Because George is going to blab. In fact, he's probably blabbing right now." The Doctor ignored all further questions and made off for the medical bay at a jog.

"He's a strange one," Eleanor said.

"You have no idea," Amy replied.

In the medical bay, George had come out of unconsciousness but had sadly fallen straight into insanity. The last thing he remembered was a blue box appearing out of thin air just feet from him, and then nothing. Upon waking and finding Rory peering into his eyes, his first thought was that he'd been drugged and kidnapped by the evil alien friends of those angels and his organs were going to be harvested while his body was incinerated or eaten. Like any other person who found himself in such a dire situation, George completely panicked and tried to gouge out the eyes of the man he thought was coming for his organs.

"Stop, I'm only trying to help you! You're injured and...ow, clip your nails, why don't you?" Rory backed away from his flailing patient and wondered if the TARDIS' infirmary was stocked with any powerful sedatives.

Bob had seen—and been the cause of—some monumental screaming fits, but he'd never seen someone so upset they attempted to scratch out someone else's eyes, all while making a noise that suggested demonic possession. George was actually scary, something Bob hadn't thought him capable of being.

"He's a nurse; he told me he had documentation and everything," Bob said, hoping his familiar voice would calm George.

George stopped shouting and writhing and turned to look at Bob. The kid still had all his organs, and didn't look like he'd been kidnapped.

"Bob, thank God, where am I? How did I get here and who the hell is this twat?" George demanded.

"I'll handle it from here. You're on my ship, the TARDIS, which stands for 'time and relative dimensions in space,' not that you need to know that or anything. It's just a cool name. You're here because I brought you here. You're heavy, by the way. And that twat is Rory Pond, and he isn't really a twat. Any other questions?" the Doctor asked.

George forgot all about Bob and Rory and focused on the Doctor. The Doctor knew what was coming, and wondered if covering his ears and running away would be considered rude. Probably.

"You." One word, and the Doctor felt like he'd been caught getting frisky with the Queen.

"Me?" the Doctor asked.

"Why couldn't you just leave me on my couch? Why isn't it enough for you yet? I was home, I was safe, I wanted to stay there! Now I'm _here_, wherever here is," George cried.

The firestorm of accusations and spilled details that the Doctor expected George to unleash did not arrive to burn him to cinders. George, instead of looking vindictive or even particularly angry, appeared completely miserable.

"I'm sorry, George. I only wanted to help. You were hurt, and I just happened to have a nurse handy," the Doctor said.

As the terror of having his organs harvested faded completely, George felt all the pain and weariness of the day return. He collapsed onto his bed, and was grateful for the Doctor's nurse. Even if the bloody nurse could have just treated him in the comfort of his own home.

"Thank you, Doctor. Next time, though, please tell me if you're going to land blue box on my furniture. It'll save us both some problems," George said.

"Will do, George. Take good care of him, Rory," the Doctor said.

Rory nodded and turned his attention back to his patient, who was no longer trying to blind him. The Doctor took this as a sign to leave. He didn't want to be there while Rory made a full catalogue of George's injuries. That would be depressing, and the Doctor would hold himself responsible for every bruise, cut, concussion, and internal injury.

"One more thing. You won't need Bob anytime soon, will you?" the Doctor asked.

"George is my priority, but Bob shouldn't—"

"Good! Come along, Bob, let's go sight-seeing."

Bob happily followed the Doctor, and Rory wondered why he even bothered. The Doctor would never listen to him; the stubborn madman wouldn't even call him by his proper name! Rory Pond, indeed.

"First, let's see where we are," the Doctor said.

"Don't you know?" Bob asked.

"Nope. Closed my eyes when I inputted the coordinates. We could be almost anywhere. Floating above Pluto, drifting through a nebula, hurtling towards a dying star. Eh, better make sure it's not the last one. Go open the doors and we'll have a look."

"But won't I get sucked out into space? In the movies, that's what happens. They get sucked out and freeze or explode."

"Time Lord technology is specifically designed to prevent freezing, sucking, or exploding. Mostly. But the doors are safe to open. I do it all the time."

Bob needed no further prodding. He ran ahead of the Doctor and straight for the TARDIS doors. Eleanor, who had seen the same movies with exploding or freezing astronauts, screamed for her brother to stop. She would have chased him down, tackled him, and dragged him back if Amy hadn't assured her the TARDIS would retain its heat and air.

Eleanor clutched at a handrail just in case the vacuum of space did rush in and try to claim them all. Bob had none of his sister's trepidation, and pushed the doors open. He was not pulled out, but stumbled backwards instead. He made it all of three steps before being completely overwhelmed and falling to his knees.

"Ah, no dying star, that's good. Hmm, let me see. There's a little nebula there, and is that Pollux over there? I think it is! In that case, we're about thirty-four light years from Earth." The Doctor leaned out the open doorway for a closer look.

"We're in space," Bob whispered. "_I'm_ in space."

Eleanor released her death-grip on the handrail and crept closer to her brother. She could see the dark void of space, sprinkled with stars, beyond the doors. It was the most gorgeous and humbling thing she'd ever seen, the most gorgeous and humbling thing anyone had probably ever seen.

The Doctor returned all his limbs to the safety of the TARDIS and stepped from the doorway so Eleanor and Bob could have an unobstructed view. Bob managed to stand, albeit shakily, and inched towards the doorway.

"You could see your home from here. Your home star, anyway," the Doctor said.

"Yeah?" Bob asked.

"Yep. It's right...there. The sun as seen from thirty-four light years away." The Doctor pointed to a speck of light no larger than any star seen in the Earth's night sky.

"Hi, Mum!" Bob shouted, waving theatrically at the far-away solar system.

The Doctor was able to cross off to items from his to-do list. Bob was now enjoying space, and Eleanor was doing what she felt like, which was also enjoying space. The Doctor figured it would be wise to get his tasks started. He did have quite a bit of planning to do before he was ready to send the weeping angels off to their permanent home. He also had a good deal of hair to grow back.

"Enjoy the view," the Doctor said. "And don't lean out too far; I think the TARDIS will catch you, but I'm not sure."

The siblings promised not to push the TARDIS' safety protocol. That satisfied the Doctor and he ambled off to begin the planning process. He had no ideas, a trio of extraterrestrial stone psychopaths, and three days to figure something out before whoever opened the church got the shock of their life.

This couldn't be too difficult.

* * *

TBC

Pollux is a real star. It's the brightest star in the constellation Gemini.


	23. The Kitchen of Pleasure

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Rory announced to everyone that while George had certainly suffered enough damage to keep him confined to a bed for a few days, he wasn't going to die or face any deformation. The Doctor wasn't there to hear it personally, but a monitor that linked the TARDIS control room with the Doctor's bedroom relayed the report. The good news lessened the Doctor's burden of guilt. George had survived his encounter with the weeping angels and would only have permanent mental scars, which were horrific enough, without any permanent physical reminders.

With George's situation sorted, Rory tried to get back to examining the nasty injury to Bob's head. Bob, however, refused to be pried away from the TARDIS doors. There was no way he was going back into a room that looked like an infirmary when he could watch a massive planet revolve around a star that was thirty four light years from Earth.

"It won't take long, and it isn't like the star's going to disappear or do anything special," Rory said.

"It might! What if there's a solar flare and I miss it? Or what if some aliens drift by and I miss them?" Bob countered.

"You've spent all day with an alien!"

"Yeah, but Doctor Bowtie looks too human. I want to see tentacles and blobs and feelers!"

"No you don't. You really don't. It isn't anywhere near as glorious as you think it is."

"Feelers!" Bob insisted.

Rory threw up his hands in defeat. If Bob wanted to stay deluded and refuse treatment, there wasn't anything Rory could do about it.

Amy read the frustration on her husband's face and intervened. She sidled up next to him and threw her arms around him. That distracted him from his medical duties.

"Let's leave Bob alone for a little while," Amy purred. "You and I can go play doctor."

Rory needed no further encouragement. His mood significantly improved, he hurried off with Amy.

Bob was strangely unaffected by Rory and Amy's sudden and not-so-subtle departure. He shrugged it off and went back to gazing out at Pollux. As of yesterday, before he'd learned about Time Lords, angels from beyond the stars, and spaceships shaped like police call boxes, he would have had typical twelve-year-old boy reactions. Today, though, shagging didn't seem important enough to warrant sniggering and rude comments.

Eleanor couldn't believe her eyes. She knew her brother, knew the way he talked and joked with his friends, and knew the way boys had been when she'd been twelve. The same brother who had, only weeks ago, spent half an hour in the garden laughing his head off with his mates over a pair of rocks that looked like breasts could now show actual discretion! Apparently nearly being killed by alien angels had matured him a bit.

Facing death might have refined Bob's sense of humor, but it couldn't erase the fact he hadn't eaten since breakfast. His stomach growled, then it roared, and then it threatened to shake the TARDIS to pieces with pure sonic vibrations if it didn't get some food. Not starving took precedent over sitting and watching the stars.

"Where do you suppose the kitchen is?" Bob asked.

"How should I know?" Eleanor replied.

"You work in a restaurant."

"That doesn't mean I've been granted some sixth sense for finding food."

"Let's try that hallway."

There was no arguing with Bob's stomach; it had more control over his actions than his brain did. Eleanor reluctantly followed her brother into the unknown depths of the TARDIS. She wished, as the console room disappeared behind them, that she had some breadcrumbs to drop and leave a trail, or spool of twine to serve the same purpose. Without any type of markers, they'd surely get lost, and while Bob would love snooping around, the ship's owner would probably find it rude.

Whether they were unbelievably lucky, Bob had a hidden talent for finding people's kitchens, or the TARDIS had done a little kind rearranging for her new travelers, the corridor led straight to the kitchen. It was a marvelous kitchen, the kind of kitchen that could make all a boy's dreams come true. All of his food related dreams, at least. It probably couldn't help get his hands on the Doctor's sonic screwdriver, unless there was some food here that the Doctor adored so much he'd be open to pick-pocketing while he ate it.

"Where do we even start?" Eleanor's experience in the restaurant business left her fully capable of frying an egg, but even a master chef would've been overwhelmed by the Doctor's expansive pantries.

Bob opened a cupboard and was nearly buried beneath an avalanche of toast. Not bread. Toast, golden brown and ready for butter.

There was no sense letting good toast go to waste, so Bob chose six slices that had been darkened to the perfect shade, and shoved the rest back into the cupboard. He set them on the table, which was crowded with fruit bowls brimming with bananas and little else, and searched for something to eat with the toast.

"Found anything that goes with toast?" Bob asked.

Eleanor shook her head. She'd discovered some tins that had been stacked in a pyramid, but they were unlabelled and she didn't trust them not to be full of dog food. Considering that the Doctor was an alien, and probably had all manner of space-nibbles on his ship, Eleanor decided not to touch anything that didn't clearly state its contents and planet of origin.

"Look in those boxes. I'm going to check over here." Bob clambered up onto the counter like a spider monkey to reach a cabinet that had been built peculiarly out of reach.

Eleanor hefted a box onto the table and gave it a quick shake. There were definitely several items rolling around inside it. Unfortunately, the box provided no clues. It was, unlike the tins, labeled with a terrestrial language. The language wasn't one that Eleanor understood, but she surmised it was Asian in origin.

Shrugging her shoulders, Eleanor tore the box open. The stench that emerged nearly drove her to her knees. Bob gagged, clapped both hands over his nose and mouth, and leapt off the counter before he could faint and add another head injury to his problems.

"I see you've found my durian. Thanks! Now I can finally discover if this regeneration thinks it's as vile as the last one did." The Doctor approached the odious fruit and lifted the largest, spiniest specimen from the box.

"You've eaten that before? How did it not kill you?" Eleanor asked. She, like her brother, was now covering her nose.

"Strong Time Lord constitution."

The Doctor set the durian on the table next to Bob's toast. Bob didn't want his toast anymore. The wretched stink of the spiny fruit had no doubt saturated the toast, and eating it would be like eating an old sock that had spent weeks in the gutter outside a rowdy pub.

"Found my toast cupboard, too? I love my toast cupboard. Specially designed to preserve carbohydrates and keep them fresh almost indefinitely. Some of that toast might be decades old and it's still yummy." The Doctor jammed a slice of finely aged toast into his mouth.

Dry toast was boring, and the Doctor decided durian was just the spice it needed. He opened a nearby drawer of utensils and pulled out a knife. Bob and Eleanor stepped back farther, as though they expected something infinitely malevolent to burst from the fruit when the Doctor cut it.

Sutekh the Destroyer did not erupt from the bisected fruit in a cloud of dust and darkness, though the pungent odor did increase. The Doctor wasn't affected by it; he'd climbed through places that smelled far worse. Ignoring the disgusted cries of Bob and Eleanor, the Doctor picked up half the durian and licked it. He smacked his lips a few times, ran his tongue over his front teeth, and looked pensive.

"Needs…custard."

"Custard is not going to make that edible," Eleanor said.

"I think it's edible now, but not very good. I'd eat it for money, and I'd eat before I'd boil my shoes and eat them, but I wouldn't eat it if I just saw it lying there. Unless I hadn't eaten for about three, no _four_ days. Then I'd eat it."

"I wouldn't eat it even then. But I'm hungry. Doctor Bowtie, feed us," Bob said.

The Doctor couldn't let Bob and Eleanor wither away from hunger, so he dropped the durian halves back into the box and set to cook something delicious. He grabbed a large bowl and systematically raided the cupboards. Eleanor tried to guess what he was going to cook with the eclectic ingredients, but there seemed to be no cohesion. When she thought she had his recipe figured out, he grabbed three bananas and her prediction imploded.

"Good, I think that's everything. Wait, ew, yogurt! I hate yogurt! It's got bits in it, nasty, chunky bits. Horrible bits. Bad, horrible, chunky bits." The Doctor grimaced at the yogurt. "Amy knows I hate yogurt. Why did she buy it? I'm going to have to talk to her."

After dismissing the yogurt, the Doctor concentrated on the rest of his ingredients. In a whirlwind of fingers, knives, spoons, and unidentified flying foodstuffs, the pile of unrelated food was joined in unholy union.

Bob tentatively approached the bowl and peered into it with the morbid curiosity of someone examining a dead squirrel. Eleanor held back, as though afraid the Doctor's mad science experiment would come to life like Frankenstein's monster and try to throttle everyone in the kitchen. The Doctor was the only one who seemed unperturbed by the rainbow in the bowl.

"Geoff's dog threw up and it looked like that," Bob said.

"But it didn't _taste_ the same, and that's what matters," the Doctor replied.

Eleanor refuted the Doctor's claim. "Presentation's important, too. I've heard loads of people complain that their food looks like rubbish. They won't even taste it."

"They're narrow-minded. Just because something looks pleasant doesn't mean it's delicious. Pears, for example. They look innocent enough, just sitting there all narrow on top and plump on the bottom, but when you bite into one…it gives me nightmares!" the Doctor exclaimed, shivering at the thought of eating pears.

"I'll try it, but how do I eat it? Do I spread it on toast?" Bob asked.

"It already has toast in it! Isn't that cool? Here, get a spoon and dig into whatever color looks best. I think I'll try some blue."

When blue didn't poison the Doctor and send him into convulsions, Bob sampled a mélange of yellow, grey, and orange. When yellow, grey and orange didn't kill her brother instantly, Eleanor felt brave enough to take a tiny scoop of red. Red, whatever it was made of, was surprisingly delicious.

The three of them managed to empty the bowl. Bob scraped the last swirls of green mystery goo from the bottom. The Doctor took the bowl from him and licked it, ensuring nothing was left behind. Eleanor eventually had to coax the bowl away from the Doctor and put it in the sink.

Without food or starving friends to distract him, the Doctor remembered why he had come to the kitchen in the first place. He grabbed a bowl of bananas from the table and ran with it to the refrigerator. From the refrigerator he withdrew eggs, spinach, an orange, carrots and apples, and threw them into the bowl.

"You're not going to make _more_, are you?" Eleanor asked.

"No. This isn't going in my stomach; it's going on my head," the Doctor replied.

"I know a girl who put eggs in her hair—she said the protein helped fortify it—but I've never heard of carrots doing the same," Eleanor said.

"They're not going _directly_ on my hair. There's science involved first. A little technique I learned—was forced to learn—from the vainest people in the universe," the Doctor said.

"Humans aren't the vainest people in the universe?"

"Ha! Not even close. There are species out there that make you lot look like unclothed, filthy apes. I had the misfortune of running into the worst of them a few regenerations ago. They accused me of being the ugliest, dirtiest thing to ever set foot on their planet. Then they told me I had nice hair and gave me a four-hour lecture on how to keep it that way. And then they told me to be gone and if I ever besmirched their pristine citadels with my hideousness again, they'd have me loaded into a rocket and blasted at their unsightly neighbors."

The Doctor laughed fondly at the memory while Bob and Eleanor's shining picture of the universe suffered serious tarnishing. Unaware that he'd injected realism into his friends, the Doctor strolled from the kitchen, laden bowl in hand. He was halfway down the corridor when he remembered something important and backpedaled.

"You're going to need bedrooms," he said.

"I like sleeping on the couch," Bob said.

"Then you'll need a couch-room and Eleanor will need a bedroom. Think about what you want in your bed or couch room. I'll see what the TARDIS can do."

"Your ship can _make_ couches? And bedrooms?"

"She can also make swimming pools, libraries, squash courts, and almost any other kind of room you could ever want."

"Can I have a swimming pool in my room?"

"Maybe. We'll find out later, after supper. That should give you enough time to draw up blueprints and me enough time to re-grow my magnificent hair."

"Good luck, Doctor Bowtie," Bob said.

The Doctor nodded and departed. As he left, he muttered, "this had better work or I'm going back to their bloody planet and rubbing myself on everything."

Bob and Eleanor left via another corridor and returned to the control room. They each found a secluded spot and considered their ideal bedroom. Eleanor tried not to be exploitive of the Doctor's hospitality. Bob wondered if sharks could be incorporated into his room. When he asked Eleanor what she thought, she told him he deserved a bare prison cell.

Bob decided not to share his spectacular interior design ideas after that. He was smart enough to realize they had only three days before they had to face the weeping angels again. There was a chance he or Eleanor or everyone on Earth would die. It would be a bleeding shame not to use those three days to their hedonistic maximum.

Of course, having his hand bitten off by a shark would make those days less pleasant. Bob considered the situation and decided to scrap the toothy fish. He didn't want them in his swimming pool, anyway.

* * *

TBC

I realize these past two chapters have been rather nice and pleasant (and maybe a little boring for some!), but the weeping angels will be back soon.


	24. The Doctor Cooks and Curls

Thanks for the reviews! They were wonderful and made me happy.

* * *

Dinner was a subdued affair, mainly because the food that the Doctor had promised an hour ago had failed to appear and Bob, unable to defeat his boredom by eating, had conquered it by falling asleep on his empty plate. Eleanor appeared ready to emulate her brother. Hunger was the only thing that kept the Ponds alert. They hadn't had any of the bizarre rainbow mush, and they were starving. George wasn't even at the table. He was sound asleep in his bed.

Rory drummed his fork against his plate. Amy found it the most annoying, grating sound she'd ever heard. After a dozen dull repetitions, she snatched the fork from her husband and slammed it on the table. The noise made Bob snort and blink once before deciding he didn't care enough to actually wake up.

"Doctor, if we don't have food in the next sixty seconds, I'm calling Gordon Ramsay!" Amy shouted.

"No, don't do that! It's coming, ouch! Hot! I burned myself, Pond! I hope you're happy," the Doctor replied.

Barely sneaking in before his sixty seconds expired, the Doctor rushed to the table while carefully balancing a large platter and three bowls. The delicious smells perked Bob up and he lifted his head. Everyone else at the table stared at their long-awaited dinner with what bordered on lust.

Near-starvation served as a wonderful distraction. It wasn't until all five plates had been filled with roast beef, mashed potatoes, carrots, and Yorkshire pudding that Amy noticed something was off. Something was very, very off. That something was the Doctor's hair. He had transformed his mangled mane into…curls!

The Doctor noticed Amy staring at him, grinned, and dropped his carving knife so he could stroke and fondle his wonderfully re-grown hair. Even if it hadn't come out quite as expected, he no longer looked like he'd been barbered with a rusty potato peeler, and that was good enough for him.

"Aren't they wonderful? I haven't had curls like these in centuries. In foresight, I probably should have tweaked the formula a bit, since those preening narcissists would have designed it to preserve the curly hair I had then, but I like the nostalgic look." The Doctor paused to study his companions' reactions.

He was met with blank stares. Bob, a forkful of potatoes in his hand, froze with his mouth hanging open. Rory squinted, as though he thought focusing his eyes would somehow make the Doctor's hair return to normal. Amy politely hid her shock by choking on her carrots. Eleanor and Rory, both trained in the Heimlich maneuver, sprung to her rescue. Rory, by virtue of sitting closer, got to Amy first and managed to rescue his wife from the orange menace lodged in her windpipe.

After it was ascertained Amy would be fine and the excitement over the carrots' attempt on her life died down, the conversation inevitably turned to the Doctor's hair. He wasn't remotely as excited about resurrecting his fourth regeneration's hairstyle. It had inadvertently injured Amy, and had rendered everyone else speechless, and not in an encouraging manner.

"It's…interesting," Amy said, her voice a little hoarse from the close encounter with the carrot.

"Blimey," was all Bob could say.

"I agree," Eleanor said.

"The hair itself _is_ nice, but I don't think you've got the face for it," Rory said. "You with curls is like Amy blonde or me with braids."

Rory was right. It was wonderful hair, singular in bounce and volume, but it didn't belong on this regeneration's head. The Doctor made his decision: after dinner, and after furnishing Bob and Eleanor's rooms, he would restore his hair to its proper style.

At peace with his follicles, the Doctor was able to enjoy the roast and potatoes he'd cooked. At peace with the Doctor's decision, everyone else was able to eat with only minimal glancing at the condemned curls. Bob was in such a state of zen he easily consumed more food than any two people at the table combined.

Bob's ability to eat like a hippopotamus became the next topic of conversation. Eleanor wasn't impressed, as she'd seen her brother gorge himself at every meal during the past year. Even extreme gluttony got boring when witnessed three times a day. The Doctor couldn't say Bob would defeat a Hoix in an eating competition, but the kid would certainly be a decent opponent. Amy and Rory wondered how they'd ever be able to feed a son, should they produce one.

With Bob's magnificent ability to consume, all the food was soon gone. The Doctor was about to offer dessert when Bob leapt from the table, nearly knocking over his chair in the process. He was unable to control his excitement any longer, even for pie and ice cream. He wanted to see the TARDIS create a room, however it happened, and he wanted to see it now.

"Please, please, please, I want my room!" Bob begged. "And my swimming pool!"

The Doctor couldn't argue with the pitiful face Bob was making; the wait did look like it was causing him physical pain. Leaving the dirty dishes for later—or for the Ponds—the Doctor lead hyperactive Bob and his more composed sister to the control room.

"Right, so we'll just clean up here," Rory grumbled.

The Doctor, who Rory had been sure was out of earshot, happily took him up on the offer. Rory glared at the tableful of empty plates, glasses, and bowls. No matter how fiercely he stared them down, none of the dishes seemed motivated or fearful enough to grow the necessary appendages to walk itself to the sink and give itself a proper scrubbing.

In the control room, the Doctor set himself down in front of the complex TARDIS console. He ushered Eleanor and Bob close and asked them to describe their rooms. Eleanor didn't have a chance to open her mouth before her brother was screaming about shag carpet, his bloody swimming pool, and a couch.

Even though Bob was speaking at a speed that hardly allowed him time to breathe, the Doctor seemed to have no trouble following what the boy said. The Time Lord's fingers, moving at a pace to match Bob's flapping mouth, leapt about between a screen and a keyboard. The Doctor never interrupted Bob to ask for clarification, or to ask exactly how mad he was to want half of the furnishings he did.

Bob eventually wound down, his wellspring of wild ideas depleted. The Doctor continued fiddling with the keyboard for a few seconds longer, and then, with a flourish, pressed a final button.

"Do your best, old girl," the Doctor said.

"What old girl?" Bob asked.

"The TARDIS. I don't want her to feel disappointed if she can't make your room exactly how you want it."

"Can spaceships do that? Have feelings, I mean."

"'Course they can! Well, most can't, but TARDIS's can. They're organic, living creatures. They've probably got rich internal lives, now that I think of it. Especially mine. She's special, always was."

If the TARDIS had been a cat, the Doctor's comments would have made her purr. If she'd been a woman, they'd have made her do something a little naughtier.

It was finally Eleanor's turn. Taking advantage of her little brother's rare silence, she started to describe her bedroom. She managed to relay the carpet color before Bob interrupted.

"Where's my room? Did it work? Can I see it? Does it have a pool?"

"Of course you can see it. You can do plenty of things in it. I still don't know if it has a pool. If you wait until I finish with Eleanor's room, you can find out together," the Doctor said.

Bob considered puling and crying that he didn't want to wait, but then he considered how hard Eleanor could hit. He suffered in silence while she created the most uninspired room ever. It took all of Bob's willpower not to scoff when Eleanor finished without mentioning a single swimming pool or secret cubbyhole.

The Doctor finished programming the bedroom into the TARDIS. He wasn't allowed a moment's rest. Bob was acting like he'd explode if he wasn't shown his room, and the Doctor didn't want to pick bits o' Bob from all the nooks and crannies of the spaceship. Hoping the rooms were placed where he'd intended, the Doctor led the siblings from the control room and into the depths of the TARDIS.

The TARDIS was an expansive structure and the bedrooms weren't as easy to find as the kitchen. Bob and Eleanor were given an extensive tour of the sentient ship's meandering passageways, a tour that went on a bit longer than intended when the Doctor found himself facing a dead end. After a bit of backtracking and a premature introduction to what turned out not to be Bob's bedroom but Squash Court Two, the Doctor and his followers arrived in front of a bright green door.

"This is definitely right," Bob said. "That's the color I wanted."

"And what color would you call that? Radioactive neon lime?" Eleanor asked.

"Predator blood."

Eleanor couldn't say she was surprised. Of course Bob would choose a color that literally glowed in the dark; anything else wouldn't be ostentatious enough.

Without waiting for an invitation, Bob slammed the door open and ran into his bedroom. The Doctor and Eleanor stepped in behind him, Eleanor doing it more cautiously. She knew what her brother's room at home looked like—a terrorist could find potent biological weapons in there—and she wasn't keen on discovering what would soon litter the floor of his outer space bedroom.

It was better than every Christmas, birthday, and sorry-I've-been-so-busy-at-work gift he'd ever received. Bob, forgetting that close family was watching his performance and would record it for later nefarious purposes, squealed like a teenage girl. Then he dropped to the floor and rolled around in the shag carpeting that looked like navy blue grass.

The carpet was incredible, but Bob soon rolled into something that distracted him from it. He had a swimming pool! A plastic kiddy pool, but a swimming pool nonetheless! Bob peered into the pool and noticed a grey, foot-long object floating in the water. It was a plastic shark! He had a swimming pool with sharks in it!

Seeing all of Bob's wishes come true made Eleanor long to see her own room. She and the Doctor left Bob to his infinite joy and the Time Lord led her farther down the hall. The two bedrooms were close enough together that Bob and Eleanor would have no trouble visiting each other, but not so close that Eleanor had to hear Bob at all hours of the day.

Eleanor's door was not bright green, but it was exactly how she imagined it: wood the rich color of mahogany, and none of the scratches—all caused by Bob—that marred her earthly bedroom door. The Doctor encouraged her to open the door, and she did.

"It's beautiful." Eleanor stood, breathless, at the threshold.

The Doctor popped his curious head in and took a gander. As far as bedrooms went, this was a little plain for his tastes, but he supposed if humans didn't know about advanced alien gadgets that made unbelievable wall decorations (and in a pinch could be yanked off the wall and thrown at a foe), then they couldn't ask for them. It would also be a little presumptuous, the Doctor supposed, to add said brilliant wall decorations without the human's consent, as a few (many) of those wall decorations were quite spiky and possibly (certainly) dangerous in inexperienced hands.

"I love it," Eleanor gushed, and the Doctor felt a pair of arms wrap around his chest and squeeze him.

"Wonderful! If you're happy with it, I'll just pop off to see if Bob's as happy. Whenever you'd like to let me go. Don't feel rushed." The hug continued for a few more seconds, and then Eleanor released the Doctor.

"Good night, Doctor!" she called as he walked down the hall.

He gave her a pleasant wave before entering Bob's room. The door was wide open, and the Doctor took that as permission to come in. Bob had abandoned his swimming pool and his carpet, and was experimenting with his couch.

"Everything as brilliant as you'd hoped?" the Doctor asked.

Bob didn't respond and the Doctor tried asking again, a smidgeon louder this time. When Bob still didn't move, the Doctor approached the couch.

Halfway across the room, the Doctor noticed Bob was sprawled out and snoring. The boy was sleeping deeply and sleep had taken him so quickly he hadn't even had the energy to remove his shoes. It must have been one incredible crash, to go from rolling on the carpet to snoozing in five minutes. At the sight of his unconventional bed, the full weight of the day must have flattened Bob, and he'd been gone the second his head hit the pillow.

"Good night, Brilliant Bob," the Doctor whispered. Bob grunted, rolled over, and scratched himself.

Bob and Eleanor were sorted, but the Doctor wasn't done wishing good night yet. His next stop was the medical bay, where George slept like the dead. Maybe Rory had given him sedatives, or maybe being thoroughly beaten by weeping angels was so exhausting nothing save maybe, _maybe_, a raging intergalactic war could wake George.

"Good night, George," the Doctor said. He got nothing, not even a grunt and a backside scratch, in reply.

The Doctor's final stop was the Ponds' bedroom. Their door was slightly ajar, and he assumed that meant they would love a visitor. He barged in and found Rory, dressed like a Roman Centurion, defending his wife, who was hiding in her bed, from a broom that one of the Ponds had drawn an angry face and villainous curly moustache on.

"You never knock! Why do you never knock?" Rory cried, blushing furiously and trying to kick the broom under the bed.

"The door was open!" the Doctor defended.

"I thought I locked it," Rory moaned.

"I came to say goodnight. Goodnight. Now I'm leaving." The Doctor beat a hasty retreat for the door, lest the evil broom get a jump on the Last Centurion.

"See you in the morning, Doctor," Amy said, just as the door slammed closed.

As soon as they were sure the Doctor wouldn't be back, Rory fished the broom out from under the bed and placed it back against the wall.

"Where were we? Right. If you ever say that about my wife again…"

All his goodnights said, the Doctor retreated to his bedroom. He wasn't going to sleep; Time Lords needed only a fraction of the sleep humans did. No, what he was going to do was fix his hair, and do it right this time. And then he was going to plan. And he was going to plan until he developed such a masterful, foolproof plan that not even an army of heavily armed fools would ever scuttle it.

And once he stopped those damned fools for good, he would definitely get working on those weeping angels, which were quite a bit nastier.

* * *

TBC


	25. A Questionable Plan

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

The Doctor, his hair shorn to its proper length and straightened to its proper style, sat with a piece of paper on his lap and a chewed pencil held between his teeth. He stared at the paper, which was blank except for a drawing of a lorry and a caricature of a weeping angel—the Doctor wouldn't risk a detailed angel sketch, just to be safe.

The paper remained all-but-blank for an hour before the Doctor sighed in disgust and dropped it on the desktop. He wasn't getting anywhere. He had the bones of a plan: acquire a lorry with plenty of cargo space, likely through psychic paper influenced means, and then load the angels into the lorry. What he was going to do with the angels once he had them on the lorry was the sticking point of the plan. He had no idea where to take them.

He considered dropping them in the Atlantic Ocean, only to realize it would be utterly impossible to keep them staring at each other. Even if, somehow, he managed to drop all three angels together, the Gulf Stream, a large fish, or some other event would surely separate them before long. A codfish passing in front of one angel's face had the potential to set them all free, and the Doctor was not going to let some bloody stupid fish unleash psychotic alien angels on an unsuspecting ecosystem.

He considered burying them. Then he realized that even if angels could see each other in the dark, they didn't have dirt-vision. The Doctor's mind concocted a most terrible vision: an angel's arm emerging like a zombie's from the ground. Too scary, very bad idea.

He stopped considering after that. To take his mind off the excavating angels, the Doctor decided to prowl around the TARDIS. He left his bedroom, picked a direction at random, and started walking.

An indefinite amount of time later, the Doctor entered the kitchen. Rory and Amy had apparently washed the dishes and put them away. Hoping he'd think clearer in a place that smelled so delicious, the Doctor sat at the table and kicked his brain into high gear.

Seven hours later, a well-rested pair of Ponds found the Doctor constructing an elaborate map of England out of macaroni. He'd also whittled from bananas a trio of tiny, fruity angels. The banana angels were planted near the middle of the map, marking the location of their significantly taller, less delicious stone counterparts.

"Uh, Doctor, what is all this?" Amy asked.

The Doctor had been so engrossed in sculpting the southern coastline that he hadn't heard the Ponds enter. He twitched and swiveled around to find Amy and Rory looking at him with some concern.

"I'm playing cartographer," the Doctor explained.

"With pasta?"

"I was going to eat it when I was done, but I might never be done. I might be here forever and still never find a permanent home for the angels. The universe will succumb to heat death and I'll still be here, hunched over the table, but the angels won't be a problem then anyway because entropy will be everywhere in the universe and I'll have wasted infinity!" The Doctor, panting, collapsed into a chair Rory kindly offered him.

Amy gently massaged the Doctor's shoulders, and couldn't get him to release any tension. Rory watched and wondered why he never got massages like that. Maybe he should go mad and start making maps of England on the table and ranting about the end of the universe.

"You'll figure it out, Doctor. You've always figured it out before. We'll help, won't we, Rory?"

Rory wasn't going to disagree, though he wondered what good he would be. He was still completely in the dark about what had transpired the previous day, so he didn't even know what these "angels" were. He needed more information, and maybe the frazzled Doctor could at least tell him what he was fighting.

"What angels are you talking about, and what's the problem with them? I don't want to know how close you all came to being killed, but I want to know what tried to do the killing," Rory said.

It would be pointless to have Rory there if he didn't understand weeping angel biology, so the Doctor decided to tell him all about the problems involved in transporting and storing a trio of the deadly species.

"Weeping angels, that's what kind of angels. They're so named because they're often seen covering their eyes. They don't cover their eyes because they're crying, though. They do it because they can never look at each other. If they do, they'll be locked in stone forever. They're quantum-locked: whenever you see them, they're harmless stone. Take your eyes off them for a second—I'm not exaggerating, even a _second_—and you're dead. They'll send you back in time with a touch or, depending on their temperament, kill you directly. That's what we're dealing with, and that's what I need to hide away somewhere forever."

It took Rory some time to process the information. His wife had been attacked by stone angels that stopped being stone when you weren't looking at them. These angels could cause involuntary time travel or, if they didn't like you or were in a foul mood, they could simply murder you. It was no wonder Amy didn't want him hearing about them.

"Sorry, I've got nothing," Rory said.

"Then I'm leaving the angels at your house!" the Doctor snapped.

"I live on your TARDIS," Rory replied.

"Oh. That's not going to work then, is it?"

The Doctor slumped on the table, knocking away the southeast portion of pasta England and nearly putting his elbow into a banana angel. Rory wondered who would clean up the macaroni that now littered the floor and came to the conclusion it would probably be his responsibility.

"We're doomed," the Doctor muttered. "I'll spend the rest of my life driving a lorry of weeping angels around the English countryside. And you lot will spend the rest of your life in the back of the lorry, watching them. We'll go on and on until you're all dead of boredom, or you blink simultaneously, or we run out of petrol or—"

"Thanks for that cheery picture, Doctor. Why don't we forget about the angels for a while and do something else. Like have breakfast. You must be hungry if you spent all night doing…this," Amy said, gesturing to the mournful Time Lord and the scattered macaroni.

"I don't want to eat," the Doctor whined to the table.

"I'll make pancakes with bananas." Always assuming the Doctor hadn't used all the bananas, though that seemed unlikely.

"With extra bananas?"

"If you'll stop looking like someone killed your puppy and stole your bike, I'll put in as many bananas as you like," Amy promised.

While Amy cooked, Rory decided to check on George. It would be a nice gesture to bring the injured man breakfast in bed if he wasn't up to walking yet. It would also give Rory the opportunity to talk to George about these weeping angels, and see how the TARDIS' three newest residents had gotten involved with them.

George was still asleep and, if the sweat on his brow, grimace on his face, and sheet clutched in his hands was anything to go by, it wasn't a peaceful, restful sleep. He seemed gripped by a nightmare, an especially bad one. Rory gently shook George's shoulder.

"You're alright, just wake up. You're having a nightmare," Rory said.

George's eyes flew open and he immediately turned to his left side. Rory thought he was going to throw up, and wished there was a bucket handy. Instead of being sick, George patted the bed and lifted the sheets, as though looking for something he'd lost during the night.

"Where's Molly? Where's my wife? I had the most terrible dream where an angel killed her and now… I remember you. You're the Doctor's nurse. It all happened, didn't it?" George asked, sinking back into the bed.

"I don't know; I wasn't there. Let me get the Doctor." Rory ran from the room and returned a few minutes later with the Doctor in tow.

"Did those angel things kill George's wife?" Rory demanded.

"Yes," the Doctor replied.

"And you didn't feel I should know that?"

"Honestly, no. And I don't think this is the best place to discuss it, either." The Doctor dragged Rory out of the medical bay and into the hall, where George wouldn't have to hear his late wife mentioned.

"They killed his wife, almost killed him, almost killed Bob, and almost killed you! What about Eleanor? What about _Amy_? How close was I to becoming a widower?"

"They never laid a hand on Amy."

"I know that! If they had, she'd be visiting lovely 1775 or she'd be dead!"

"I won't let that happen."

"What's your plan, then? Take the angels on a road trip to nowhere? Maybe you can get them souvenir hats while you're there."

The Doctor was usually thankful when the Roman fighting spirit came out in Rory, but not when it was directed at the Time Lord himself. Then it was a bit scary, truthfully.

"I'm still working on the details," the Doctor said.

Rory had seen how well those troublesome details were coalescing. So far, they had managed to become three mutilated bananas, quite a bit of wasted macaroni and one sulky Doctor. As far as Rory could tell, and he would admit he was no expert, none of those three things was going to stop the angels.

"Here's some motivation. Until you have a place to keep the angels—a real place, one that will actually hold them—you don't get any breakfast. I'm giving your pancakes to George," Rory said.

The Doctor had rarely been subject to such cruelty, and never at the hands of a friend. He tried displaying eyes filled with infinite sadness and hurt; Rory was unaffected. He tried threatening Rory; Rory was unmoved. He tried puppy eyes once more; Rory ignored them. The Doctor gave up, overpowered by Roman stoicism, and slunk off to finish his plan or starve.

With the Doctor properly motivated, Rory returned to his patient. One look at George, and Rory knew this was going to be depressing. Swallowing his reluctance, Rory sat down on the edge of George's bed and endured.

The Doctor plodded around the TARDIS until he found himself in the library. This was a good spot. Libraries were quiet places full of knowledge and books and what he wouldn't give for a distracting Agatha Christie novel right then. This wasn't going to work. The Doctor had to slap his wrist to keep his hand from reaching for a bookshelf.

The Time Lord went plodding around again. This time, he found himself outside Bob's bedroom. Maybe Bob was awake, and the Doctor could bounce ideas off him. The Doctor opened the door and found Bob asleep on the floor. After considering it for a minute, the Doctor walked over to Bob and sat down next to him.

"Bob, I've got a problem. By extension, the Earth has a problem. I don't know where to put the angels. Rory won't let me eat until I do. That's mostly my problem, not the Earth's. But if I can't find a home for the angels, they're going to escape and they're probably going to kill us all in unfathomably gruesome ways before they go off and start attacking others. So, any ideas?"

Bob snored. He was not as helpful as the Doctor had hoped.

"I've got to be missing something. Britain's a big country—not _the_ biggest, more like 79th biggest—but still! There has to be one spot where I can put those angels. And before you say it, no, not Geoff's garage."

Bob wasn't about to say anything. He was still in dream land and it didn't look like he'd leave in the near future.

"One place where they won't be disturbed by man, beast, or weather. One secluded place where, even if someone did see them, it wouldn't raise any questions. One bloody perfect place that probably doesn't even exist in this dimension!"

Even the Doctor's raised voice, the voice that could make armies turn tail and flee, failed to rouse Bob. The kid was a champion sleeper.

"Come on, Doctor, think. It isn't like you haven't done this before. If you could get back from 1969 with nothing but a timey-wimey detector and a bunch of DVDs, this should be easy!"

"Timey-wimey detector," Bob muttered, and opened his eyes.

"Yes, the timey-wimey detector. I used it to find people sent back in time by the weeping angels. Not that it would be of any help now. We're all in the present, Martha doesn't have to work in a shop to support me, and no chickens should be in danger this time," the Doctor replied.

"Who's Martha?"

"One of my companions. When we were sent back in time by the angels, we had to be domestic. It nearly killed me."

"Tell me about being sent back in time!"

"It wasn't particularly exciting. Or pleasant. Traveling in a TARDIS and being hurled unceremoniously through time with no protection are two very different experiences. Without a capsule, time travel's rough and turbulent and there's a good chance you'll puke and fall down when you get wherever you're going."

"But how did the angels get you and Martha?"

"Martha and I were hunting alien reptilian beasties, and weeping angels weren't on our minds. They weren't on her mind, because she didn't know anything about them. They weren't on my mind, because I was a more innocent Time Lord back then and didn't think they lived outside of myth and maybe in the older reaches of the universe. Then Martha disappeared, there was an angel in front of me, I blinked, and I the next thing I know, it's 1969 and my TARDIS is gone."

"How did you get back? And did you do any drugs in 1969?"

"No, I didn't do drugs. That would be bad. The weeping angels were living in Wester Drumlins, a Scooby-Doo house if there ever was one. I left an SOS on the wall—and on seventeen DVDs—so a woman named Sally Sparrow would send my TARDIS back to me. She did masterfully, and not only did she send me my TARDIS, she trapped the angels for..." The Doctor abruptly smacked himself in the head.

"Why'd you do that?" Bob asked.

"All this time, it was dancing naked right in front of me! A place where I could store angels! A place I've already stored angels! Wester Drumlins! It's brilliant!"

The Doctor leapt to his feet. "Thank you, Brilliant Bob! Now I can eat!"

Bob was left with no sense of having helped the Doctor or accomplished anything. Still, if the Doctor wanted to give him credit for asking very obvious questions, he wasn't going to complain. He might even visit his sister and tell her that he'd saved the world once again.

While Eleanor was awoken by the sound of her brother preening and gloating, the Doctor was running to the kitchen to scrounge the last of the pancakes. Rory had escorted George to the table, and George was eating the Doctor's banana pancakes. The Doctor's head might have caught fire if Amy hadn't dropped a plate of pancakes down in front of him.

"Don't touch those pancakes until you tell us the plan," Rory ordered.

The Doctor grabbed a pancake with his bare hands and took a great bite of it. Rory frowned. The Doctor chewed noisily, crumbs falling from his mouth.

With his mouth still half full, the Doctor told his plan. Then he had to repeat it all over again once he'd swallowed so everyone could understand him.

"Your plan is to take the three angels we have, and put them in the basement of a haunted house where four other angels already live?" Rory asked.

"The house isn't haunted, but asides from that, yes. That's the plan," the Doctor replied.

"Alright. When do we start?"

"Friday morning."

Rory made a mental note to enjoy his life to the absolute fullest until then. If he was going to be murdered in the cellar, he wanted to die without regrets.

At the same time Rory was consigning himself to a lifespan of two days, Amy and George were having very similar thoughts.

When Bob and Eleanor became savvy to the plan, they also opined it would all end in tears.

Their pessimism would be well rewarded.

* * *

TBC

According to Wikipedia, the United Kingdom is the 79th largest country by landmass. That's where I get all my facts...


	26. Mothership

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Bob and Eleanor had a mum back on Earth who probably wanted to hear from her children before the Friday apocalypse. They were both doubtful anything could be done about it—they were, after all, orbiting a star light years from home—but approached the Doctor anyway. He was delighted to tell them calling their mother would not be a problem, and then proceeded to "borrow" Amy's mobile directly from her unsuspecting pocket.

"I've already modified Amy's phone; it's able to call any number from anywhere and any when. Just don't use it to prank call Alexander Graham Bell. He doesn't appreciate it," the Doctor said, handing the phone to Eleanor.

After five rings, a tired voice asked, "Who is this?"

"Mum, it's Eleanor. My mobile broke so I'm using my friend's. How's California?"

"Eleanor! What time is it there? What time is it here?" There was the sound of clothing ruffling as Eleanor's mother searched for her alarm clock. "It's four in the morning here. So that's…noon-ish?"

"Eight hour difference," Eleanor confirmed. "Sorry to wake you up, but we missed you."

"What did Bob do?"

"Nothing! Well, he won't clean his room, but asides from that, he's been well behaved. He really isn't so horrible when you're not around. I think he just loves to put on a show," Eleanor said.

"I do not!" Bob protested. Eleanor swatted him until he backed away.

"Tell me honestly, Eleanor, you called just because you missed me. Nobody's hurt, nothing's broken, the police aren't going to be there when I get home?"

"Yes, Mum, we're fine. I called because I miss you and I love you. Bob, would you stop that? You can talk to her when I'm finished!"

Bob danced in the background until his sister _finally_ handed him the phone. He jammed it against his ear.

"Hi, Mum!"

An ocean and roughly 3,000 miles of continent away, a very tired, very suspicious mother tried to assure herself she would not return to Britain to find her house burned to the ground and her children behind bars. Her son's cheery tone didn't quiet her parental alarms.

"What have you been up to, Bob?"

"Skateboarding, mostly. Geoff tried to build a ramp out of crap from his garage, but it fell apart. He got his dad's power drill, but that didn't help." It rolled off Bob's tongue as a true story, because it was a true story. It just happened to be an old story.

Geoff and power tools… She'd be lucky to have a country to fly home to!

"Don't destroy the neighborhood," Bob's mother said.

"I won't," he promised. Though what the weeping angels would do, he couldn't say.

"And brush your teeth at least once."

"Okay."

"And I love you very much. I'll be home Sunday. Well, Sunday here, Monday there." There was a little chuckle. "It's almost like time travel, isn't it? Bloody time zones."

"Yeah, time travel. Love you, Mum," Bob said, his voice breaking.

"Bob? Are you sure—"

"I'm totally brilliant! Sorry we woke you up. We'll call you later."

With some reluctance, the very tired, very suspicious, very loved mother disconnected and placed her mobile on the little bedside table. She rolled over, tried not to worry about her children, and fell asleep a few minutes later.

On the TARDIS, Bob scrubbed furiously at his eyes while all manner of pitiful little noises escaped him. Eleanor hugged her brother. When he didn't start slapping at her like she was an evil octopus come to strangle him with her tentacles, she knew exactly how frightened he was. There was nothing except the impending end of the universe that could force Bob to endure a hug from his sister.

"It'll be alright, Bob. We'll be there to see Mum on Monday, and she'll never know anything happened. I promise."

As though he knew they needed privacy, the Doctor didn't reappear to sequester Amy's phone until Bob was comforted enough to no longer require the protective sisterly arm around him. Eleanor handed over the mobile, which the Doctor pocketed.

"If you want to talk to her later, I'll steal the phone again," the Doctor said.

"Couldn't you just…ask?" Eleanor wondered.

"I could, but I need to keep my pickpocket abilities sharp. Never know when you might need to nick a guard's keys."

"Yeah, of course."

Like a ninja, the Doctor snuck away to replace Amy's mobile before she ever knew it'd gone missing. Eleanor and Bob were left with nothing to do until dinner. Unless they planned to spend all that time brooding, they needed a distraction. Seeing as how they'd barely explored any of the TARDIS, they decided to see what they could find.

Six hours later, just as the Doctor was beginning to worry Bob and Eleanor had wandered into a pocket dimension or something equally unlikely but not impossible, they appeared in the kitchen dressed in the most bizarre outfits. They had apparently stumbled across the TARDIS' expansive wardrobe, and had exploited it to the fullest.

Amy, Rory, and George, when they sat down for dinner, found they shared the table with a pirate wearing an ill-fitting, strange helmet and a terribly confused cowgirl who believed striped bell bottoms matched spurs. The Doctor glanced at Eleanor and Bob, shrugged, and set down the pot of soup. A man who had worn celery had no right to criticize anyone's fashion sense. Even if that fashion sense had compelled its victim to don a Sontaran battle helmet.

Once dinner was over, but before everyone could disperse, the Doctor slipped a hand into Amy's pocket and snatched her mobile. She never knew she'd been burglarized. While Amy went about her business, the Doctor slid the mobile into Bob's waiting hands.

Bob's second conversation with his mother ended with him openly weeping to his "mummy," a term he hadn't used since he was six years old. Eleanor hastily took the mobile and attributed Bob's sobbing sentimentality to the thousands of miles separating him from the woman who gave birth to him. Bob, moaning like the Ghost of Christmas Past, shambled behind his sister with his head in his hands.

Wednesday did not end on a positive note.

Thursday began with a violent solar flare and the Doctor maneuvering the TARDIS out of the super-heated, radioactive bombardment's path. Unfortunately for everyone who had been sleeping, the sudden shift knocked them all out of bed. Disturbed by the turbulence, the entire TARDIS crew came running to the control room.

"What's happening? Are we under attack?" Amy asked.

"Is there something wrong with the TARDIS?" Rory suspected there was, since the old ship didn't normally rattle everyone out of bed.

"It is aliens?" Bob was the only one excited by the rude awakening.

The Doctor said, "No, no aliens and nothing's wrong with the TARDIS. Pollux decided to wake up grumpy, that's all."

"Who's Pollux again?" Rory asked, scratching his head.

The Doctor strode over to the doors and thrust them open. He pointed out into space, at the massive ball of nuclear energy the TARDIS was orbiting.

"Pollux is that star, and it's experiencing solar flare activity. I don't think the TARDIS would have any problems enduring a direct hit, but she is getting up in years and solar flares are a million degrees. Better safe than charred to a crisp."

"And you couldn't have activated—what were those things River showed you?—the stabilizers? We were enjoying our nice warm beds. And couches, in Bob's case," Amy said.

The Doctor dismissed River's bloody stabilizers with a flippant wave of his hand. Stabilizers were for boring people who didn't like adventure and the occasional white-knuckle joyride. And for timey-wimey ladies whose big hair was full of spoilers.

"Nobody's hurt, and it was time to get up, anyway. I was getting lonely," the Doctor said.

"Since when do you decide when we've slept enough?" Amy asked.

"Since today. Now who wants eggs?"

One breakfast later, Amy and Rory grabbed the Doctor and forced him to wash dishes for a change. While they supervised him to make sure he didn't run away, and he splashed them with dirty sink water, Bob decided he wanted to write his will. He'd never considered who should inherit his stuff in the event of his demise, but decided now was a good time to sort it out.

Bob dragged his sister, who was watching the Doctor flick bits of egg at Rory, out of the kitchen. Eleanor wanted to stay, if only to see how much egg would adhere to Rory's face and clothes, but the look on Bob's face compelled her to follow.

"I've got to write my will, and I need you to be my witness," Bob said.

Eleanor was left speechless. Bob only nodded gravely and began ransacking random rooms for some paper.

He eventually located some paper and a pencil, and got down to the gloomy business of bestowing his earthly belongings on the worthy. Eleanor found a chair and sat down to watch.

"If I give you Reggie, will you take care of him?" Bob asked.

"Reggie, your hamster? He bites me," Eleanor replied.

"Suppose I'll give him to Geoff, then."

"Geoff couldn't take care of a pet rock. I'll take Reggie." Eleanor might not have liked Bob's hamster, but that didn't mean she wanted the nasty little hairball to die of starvation.

His only living possession (as long as the mold in his room wasn't counted) guaranteed a good home, Bob set about dispensing the rest of it. For half an hour, he wrote, erased, considered and reconsidered. Finally satisfied, he handed the page and a half to Eleanor.

"To my mum, I leave all my money. It's in a tin under my bed. I didn't sell any drugs to make it, so don't worry about that," Eleanor read. She silently wondered how much cash Bob had amassed, and what he'd done to earn it. She guessed it probably involved doing stupid skateboard tricks and eating disgusting things.

"To my sister, I leave Reggie the hamster, my room, and my video games." Eleanor wiped at her eyes and wondered how Bob knew she loved to sneak into his room and karate the hell out of digital ninjas.

"To my best mate Geoff, I leave my comics, my bike, and that rock. You know the one." A rock, a stupid rock that vaguely resembled boobs, made its way into a will?

The remainder of the will was dedicated to distributing his action figures, snack cache, posters, and other crap to roughly half the town. Eleanor dutifully read it all and declared herself a witness, signing her name at the bottom of the will. She knew the will of a twelve year old boy had no legal standing—and it was ridiculous to think it would ever be needed—but if it made Bob feel better, she was happy to inherit his hamster.

Having his affairs in order was a great relief to Bob. He took the signed will, folded it, and slipped it into his shirt pocket.

"I want to go swimming now."

Eleanor considered her brother with raised eyebrows. "Your pool is tiny."

"Yeah, but there's a bigger one around here. Sometimes you can smell the chlorine. Let's find it and go swimming."

"We don't have bathing suits."

"If the wardrobe has pirate costumes, it has to have bathing suits."

Bob's prediction proved correct, and he and Eleanor found the pool by using their noses.

While Bob and Eleanor enjoyed the temperate waters, the other TARDIS passengers amused themselves in different ways. The Ponds' attempt to make the Doctor wash the dishes had backfired; the dishes were still dirty, and now so were the Ponds, the sink, and the Doctor. The sink, dishes and Doctor were likely to stay wet and dirty for some time. As for the Ponds, they'd gone off to shower. Together.

The Doctor, not invited to the party in the shower and nowhere near motivated enough to clean up the mess around the sink, traipsed off to the control center. He wanted to have a long monologue with Sexy, and maybe record a few holographic messages for Amy and Rory, should they survive and the Doctor perish.

"Hello, Sexy. I suppose you know we're all going to risk our necks tomorrow, but whatever happens, you're still the most gorgeous blue box in the universe. In the whole wide, super-huge, awesomely enormous universe. And any and all parallel universes, too. Nowhere, in any universe or any time, is there a more gorgeous TARDIS," the Doctor cooed to the central panel.

Though she couldn't speak, the TARDIS had ways to show she was tickled pink by the Doctor's words. A low, gentle hum filled the room as the TARDIS responded to her flirtatious thief. The Doctor grinned and brushed a hand along the console.

The peaceful hum lulled away the Doctor's worries. He sat down with his back against the console and basked in the good vibrations the TARDIS was sending his way. She knew just how to make the threat of a weeping angel apocalypse (an apocalypse that put even the dreaded zombie apocalypse to shame) seem like a distant, inconsequential blip. The Doctor sighed in contentment and let his troubles go for a while.

As she soothed her precious Doctor, the TARDIS couldn't help but worry about him. She knew what dangers she'd deliver her passengers into in the morning. She had, after all, had her own close encounter with weeping angels. The memory of them surrounding her, rocking and jostling her in an attempt to reach the pair she sheltered, would have made her shiver if she'd been human. Nasty things, those weeping angels, terribly nasty.

"I'm sure we'll be fine, Sexy. They've got me to protect them, after all," the Doctor said, registering a disturbance in the TARDIS' hum.

The TARDIS sincerely hoped so. If she lost her thief, she believed it would kill her; they were like the universe's oldest married couple, and there was no doubt in her vast mind that the death of one partner would swiftly be followed by the death of the other. Even if the Doctor returned to her, the thought of losing her pair of Ponds struck her like an arrow. She'd transported many companions in her day, but there had never been any quite like the pretty one and the orange-y one she currently housed. Of course, there hadn't ever been any like the brother and sister pair that was currently splashing all the water out of her swimming pool, either.

"But just in case I'm wrong, don't let anything with wings in. Especially not if it calls itself Angel Doctor and doesn't like comfy chairs. "

And that was why she loved her beautiful, mad thief.

* * *

TBC

After this, we bid _auf Wiedersehen _to the TARDIS and get back to the main attraction: the weeping angels. Thanks for stickin' around through the slow parts.


	27. On the Road

Thanks for the reviews! Do you cool reviewers suppose you could bump the count up and over 200? I'd appreciate it!

* * *

Light years from Earth, where dawn for Reggie the hamster was obscured by rain clouds, everyone on the TARDIS slept oblivious to terrestrial time and weather. Even the Doctor, who needed only a fraction of the sleep a human did, had nodded off under the gentle hum of his ship. He slept on the floor of the control room, his jacket folded beneath his head to make a pillow. His dreams were tempestuous.

The Doctor's brief interludes of sleep were normally peaceful and quite fun. He dreamt of food and bowties and River Song, and sometimes he dreamt about them all at once and those were magnificent dreams. The nightmares his troubled mind concocted as he lay upon the TARDIS floor were as foreign as they were distressing.

For reasons he didn't have to be Sigmund Freud to figure out, the Doctor's dreams all revolved around weeping angels. Some of the dreams had to do with past angel encounters—River showed up in one dream only to be brutally murdered by Angel Bob—and some were future oriented. Those ominous dreams involved the Doctor's friends being picked off one by one until only he remained. In a majority of those dreams, he was then quickly dispatched by an angel. Just once, he was allowed to survive long enough to see the TARDIS ravaged by the angels as they sought access to the time vortex at her heart.

The Doctor was awoken by his own horrified cries. He sat bolt upright, his hearts thudding in his chest. He traced his body with his fingers to assure himself he was intact, and then did the same to the TARDIS' console. When they both proved to be solid and whole, the Doctor slumped to the floor in boneless relief.

"I just had nightmares. _Nightmares_! _Me_! Weeping angels gave me nightmares! Oh, this has to stop. Those bloody angels have got to go and they've got to go now."

Propelled to action by his unquiet dreams, the Doctor hopped to his feet. He needed to wake everyone, and do it quickly. While running through the TARDIS, pounding on doors and shouting about killer space squid was fun and was something he'd engaged in before, speed was of the essence. The easiest way to simultaneously get everyone nice and alert was to physically dump them out of bed. That could be accomplished with minimal manipulation of the control panel.

Making sure the stabilizers were off—why did he even have stabilizers, anyway? He was going to get rid of them—the Doctor set the TARDIS to take evasive action. She wasn't really evading anything, but she rolled and jerked as though dodging enemy fire. The Doctor had barely enough time to clutch the handrail before the time machine became a roller coaster.

The Ponds tumbled like a pair of dice in a cup. Rory, sleeping on the bottom bunk, spilled out first onto the floor. Amy, shrieking, fell on top of him; Rory heroically cushioned her with his body. He didn't even complain when her elbow jabbed him in the back hard enough to bruise.

George clutched the bed frame and shouted. He wasn't sure what the shouting was supposed to do, but he couldn't help himself. Shouting seemed like a natural reaction to your bed suddenly trying to buck you off like an irate horse.

Bob's couch offered him little room to roll, and he found himself on the floor as soon as the TARDIS started to tilt. Falling out of bed didn't wake him, though. As Amy's fall had been softened by Rory's convenient body, Bob's absurd carpeting provided a gentle landing. He kept on sleeping as though nothing had happened.

Eleanor, like George, clutched her bedposts and yelled. She had no idea why the TARDIS was listing like a ship in heavy seas, but she didn't like it. All the space disaster films she'd ever seen played through her head, and she wondered if some slithering, reptilian monster with two sets of jaws was going to burst through the door and slash her to pieces.

After letting the TARDIS shake, rattle and roll for a few more seconds, the Doctor decided anyone who wasn't awake was dead. The blue box settled down, and the Doctor released the handrail. Now all he had to do was wait for his fellow travelers to emerge from their rooms.

Amy and Rory came running first, and they didn't look particularly happy. George, still clinging to his pillow as though it would protect him, shuffled in not long after. Eleanor rushed in, dragging Bob behind her, and he was the only one who didn't look ready to bolt at a moment's notice; instead, he looked ready to fall asleep on his feet.

"Alright, Doctor, what's happened this time?" Amy asked. "More solar flares, or is it something we should be afraid of? You know, something actually _dangerous_ and worth getting up over."

"I had a bad dream," the Doctor replied.

A collective groan went up among the group. They'd been thrown from their nice, warm beds because the Doctor had a nightmare!

"Good night, Doctor." Amy turned and headed back to her room. She took Rory with her.

George threw his pillow at the Doctor and wished he'd had something harder and more likely to splatter. It wasn't enough to kidnap an unconscious man from his own couch! No, the Doctor couldn't be satisfied with that. He also had to dump the poor fellow from his bed at who knew what time!

"What's going on? Can someone _please_ tell me?" Bob was completely confused. He didn't know why his sister had stormed into his room, shouting about aliens, and had pulled him across the floor until he'd managed to get to his feet. And what was everyone doing in the control room, and why were they all so angry at the Doctor? Bob couldn't speak for everyone else, but he'd certainly had plenty of nightmares since he'd first met the weeping angels. Even if the Doctor was an alien, did that mean he wasn't allowed to be afraid of bad dreams?

"He shook the whole TARDIS just so we could keep him company. You missed it because you sleep like the dead," Eleanor answered.

"But he did have nightmares," Bob said.

"That's no excuse."

"Yes it is. If I had nightmares, I'd want someone to make me feel better."

"You wouldn't shake the house."

"If I could, I probably would. Especially if I was scared enough."

Eleanor shook her head, but the Doctor couldn't have been more elated. He forgot all about recalling George and the Ponds before they were out of earshot, and went down to reward Bob for his loyalty.

"Thank you, Bob. For being my friend, here's my sonic screwdriver. Have fun with that, don't aim it at anything you don't want to blow up—the control panel, for instance—and make sure your sister doesn't leave. I'll be right back," the Doctor said.

Shouting for Amy, George, and Rory to come back, the Doctor ran from the room. With nobody but his gob-smacked sister to stop him, Bob looked for something to sonic. He avoided the glowing control panel as instructed, and settled on the handrail. He pointed the screwdriver at the railing and pressed the button. The sonic buzzed and lit up, Eleanor stepped back a few long paces, and Bob held his breath as he waited for something to happen.

A single screw slowly worked itself free from the railing and dropped through the grated floor. Bob was silent for a second before breaking out into a rousing cheer. He'd just successfully unscrewed a screw without even touching it. He was awesome!

Since it had all gone so well the first time, Bob sought out something else to sonic. He settled on Eleanor. Hoping she wouldn't notice, he pointed the screwdriver at her. She noticed.

"Bob!" Eleanor shrieked.

The screwdriver buzzed and Eleanor screamed. She collapsed in a messy heap and Bob was sure his heart stopped.

"I didn't mean it! Oh crap, Eleanor, please don't be dead!" Bob cried.

"I'm fine, but I hope you learned your lesson." Eleanor sat up and glared at her brother.

Bob sonicked her again. She yanked the screwdriver from his hand.

The Doctor, followed begrudgingly by three people who would have much preferred returning to their beds, entered the room. He immediately picked up the sounds of fighting. Who was fighting on his TARDIS? The TARDIS was too happy a place for punching and bloody lips!

"Oi, what are you— Not my sonic screwdriver! No, that's bad, very bad, absolutely no way to treat my sonic screwdriver! Hand it over."

Bob shoved past Eleanor and reluctantly returned the screwdriver to its rightful owner. The Doctor examined it to make sure it hadn't broken, and once he was satisfied it was fine, pocketed it.

"Now that we're all here—George, stay there or I will get the tape—I've got something important to say. It's Friday."

"Brilliant. I know a pub that's got drink specials every Friday," George muttered.

Taking George's comment in stride, the Doctor continued, "And you all know what that means. We've got to relocate the angels. Once we've done that, we will all go to the fantastic pub George knows, and we will all get drunk. Except you, Bob. Alright, you too."

George raised his hand. "Doctor, exactly how are we going to relocate the angels? I heard your grand plan, but there are some details you haven't filled in."

"Excellent point. First, we're going to return to Earth. Then I'm going to get a lorry and we're going to load the angels into the lorry. And then we're going to drive the angels to the outskirts on London and unload them in the basement of a spooky old house. And then we're going to celebrate. Or we're all going to die. Depends on how the rest of the plan goes."

"Got it."

"Good. Now, everyone find something to hold on to. This could get bumpy."

Amy thought about suggesting the stabilizers, but before she could open her mouth, the TARDIS made her signature whoosh. Amy grabbed onto the handrail, which felt unusually unstable. She prayed it wouldn't collapse before the TARDIS landed.

After some shaking and bumping, the blue box materialized in the middle of a supermarket car park. The Doctor threw open the doors and was greeted by a ninety-two year old great-grandmother and her shopping trolley. The old woman stared at the police box that had appeared out of thin air before shaking her head and muttering about the current generation's innumerable shortcomings.

"Right, you lot stay here. I'll see if I can't borrow one of the delivery lorries," the Doctor said.

"Take your time. We're still in our night clothes, in case you didn't notice," Rory responded, gesturing at his plaid pajamas.

"What are you standing around for? Go get dressed!"

Arguing with the Doctor was useless; he was too crazy to ever lose. Sighing, Rory waited for the Time Lord to slam the TARDIS doors before he slunk back to his bedroom. Sometimes he really wished he could just punch the Doctor. Even once would be all the catharsis he would need.

The Doctor crossed the car park without paying any attention to traffic. He did test the stopping capabilities of several early-bird shoppers' cars, and was the subject of more than one swear word, but he entered the store intact.

"I need to speak to the manager!" the Doctor announced.

"She's in 'er office!" the nice lad with the mop yelled.

"And where is her office?"

"Behind yah!"

The Doctor swiveled around and was greeted with a door. Upon that door there was a plaque. Inscribed in the plaque was the word "manager". The Doctor nodded at the helpful worker and pushed the door open.

A woman of perhaps fifty sat behind a desk, a massive pile of papers stacked up in front of her. She was furiously tapping away at a calculator. The Doctor approached her.

"How can that much beef just go missing? Who the bloody hell stole half a cow?" The manager scoffed in disbelief and reran the calculations. This time, the equivalent of an entire cow had vanished from the inventory.

"I see you're very busy but I've—"

The manager jumped up in her seat. "Do you know where my cow's gotten to?"

"Eh, no. I'm here about your delivery lorry—"

"Do you think the lorry driver did it? Just absconded with the whole damn thing? I wouldn't put it past him. Are you the police? You going to arrest him?"

The Doctor fished the psychic paper from his pocket. He took a moment to conjure up an official job title before flipping open the wallet.

"I'm not with the police, at least not directly. I'm investigating a series of traffic collisions, and I'd like to inspect your delivery lorry. I'd have it back in plenty of time for tomorrow's deliveries, of course."

"Accidents? I haven't heard anything about accidents on the news."

"I shouldn't tell you this much, it's being kept under wraps. There may be a link to the old ATMOS systems. Remember them? Great, nasty poison clouds and all that?"

"Get that lorry off the property this instant! I've got enough to worry about without my lorries killing my customers!"

To the complete surprise of the entire TARDIS crew—they'd all expected the Doctor to be thrown out the door by security—the Time Lord was successful. He had managed to procure a lorry that was more than large enough to hold the three angels.

The Doctor parked the vehicle and hopped out to explain the next stage of the plan. His friends crowded around.

"As you can see, this went better than we all expected. Now we've got a pleasant ride ahead of us. Well, three of us have a pleasant ride. The other three have a ride that's a bit dark and smells like old salad. I'm the driver, so the first two people in the cab win the good seats," the Doctor said.

Bob had the advantage of youth on his side. He scrambled ahead of the pack and parked his backside in the seat. Rory stunned the competition by outrunning his wife and squeezing in next to Bob.

"The winners! Everyone else, into the back."

Amy, Eleanor and George trudged to the rear of the lorry. At least it came equipped with a loading ramp that made getting onboard easy. The defeated trio tried to get comfortable and did their best to ignore the vegetable odors.

After securing the ramp and the doors, the Doctor took his spot behind the wheel. It would be, if his calculations were correct, a thirty minute drive to the church. From the church to Wester Drumlins would be another hour and a half.

Those calculations were, the Doctor knew, almost naively optimistic. The chances that nothing, not a single thing, would go wrong were so slim they were practically zero. Weeping angels made problems; it was one of their basic functions. If they weren't zapping you back in time, they were murdering your friends. If they weren't doing either of those things, they were giving you nightmares about them doing both of those things.

"Doctor."

Rory's voice registered with the Doctor but failed to pull him from his dark ruminations. The Time Lord continued decrying all the havoc weeping angels could cause.

"Doctor!"

This time it was both Bob and Rory calling his name. The Doctor snapped out of his thoughts and looked over at them.

"What's wrong?"

"You're driving down the middle of the road! Look out!" Rory shouted.

The Doctor yipped and swerved into his proper lane just in time to avoid a collision with another lorry. He concentrated all his focus onto the road. The weeping angels were not getting rid of him that easily.

* * *

TBC


	28. The Tale of Old Fred

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

The final five minutes of the drive were wet ones, as the progressively grey and gloomy clouds unburdened their load of rain. The Doctor wasn't pleased with the weather. It would have been enough of a pain getting the angels safely aboard the lorry, but now they'd have to slog through the mud and do it while drenched and cold.

"Hold on. This is going to get bumpy," the Doctor said as the lorry tackled the poorly maintained road.

George, Amy, and Eleanor did not have the benefit of comfortable seats, and were rudely bounced around. The only lighting in the lorry—a pair of dim bulbs—flickered. The more the lorry rattled, the longer the lights went dark. That was something the Doctor had to hear about before the weeping angels came anywhere near the lorry.

The Doctor parked the lorry as close to the church as he could. With the church situated as it was—atop a hill and across a field—that still meant quite the walk. The footpath that led up to the church might have accommodated a smaller, more rugged vehicle like George's pickup, but it was too muddy and steep to risk the lorry on. The Doctor, who had a knack for driving machines in ways and places they'd never been designed to go, had enough sense to know impossible and ridiculously dangerous when he saw it.

Rory looked out the fogged windscreen and, when he saw the distance between the church and the lorry, shook his head. This was never going to work.

"Doctor, these angels, didn't you say they were made of stone?" Rory asked.

"When you're looking at them."

"And they're not small, are they?"

"No. They're the size of a human, plus they've got wings."

"So how are we supposed to carry hundreds of pounds of evil rocks from up there to down here? Oh, wait, let me guess! We'll do it like the builders of Stonehenge! We'll make rollers out of bloody trees and move the angels like that. Or we could do it like the Egyptians, with slave labor. Which sounds better to you?"

"Eh, the first one. But I happen to have a better option."

"Hire the Incredible Hulk?"

Bob interjected, "No, Superman!"

"They were both busy," the Doctor said. "I was thinking more along the lines of the hand trolleys I nicked from the supermarket."

That sounded much better and easier than enslaving the populace or cutting down all the trees. Rory approved.

"Glad that's settled. Now let's go get wet." The Doctor opened the door and stepped straight into a puddle.

Rory and Bob exchanged glances. Then, since Bob was young and carefree enough not to be concerned about how wet, muddy, or foul-smelling he became, followed the Doctor out in the rain. Rory sighed loudly, wished he had a Mackintosh or at least an umbrella, and followed Bob reluctantly.

The Doctor released Amy, Eleanor, and George from the cargo-hold. Instead of walking down the ramp as George and Eleanor had, Amy reached out, grabbed the Doctor by the bowtie and pulled him into the trailer. She dragged him until they came to the pair of fickle light bulbs.

"Look at that." Amy pointed to the bulb.

"It is very dusty, but I think that can wait, Pond," the Doctor replied.

"I don't care about the dust. Watch this." Amy flicked the bulb and it had the electrical equivalent of a _grand mal_ seizure.

"Now that, _that_ is something someone will have to fix. Suppose I should be that someone. Can't trust Rory to do it; he'll probably be electrocuted. Luckily, I've got just the tool for the job." The Doctor pulled his sonic screwdriver from his pocket.

Amy stepped back behind the Doctor, so any shards of exploding light bulb would be driven into his face and not hers. He pointed the screwdriver at the fragile tube of glass and activated the device. The screwdriver buzzed, the light momentarily brightened to the point where looking at it was painful, and then, as Amy had feared, it exploded like a grenade. The Doctor shielded his face with his arms and Amy dived for cover.

When it became apparent he hadn't been shredded by flying glass, the Doctor lowered his arms and assessed the damage. He was unhurt save for a small nick on his forehead. He asked Amy if she'd been injured, and she replied by demanding to know what the hell had just happened. The Doctor took that to mean she was fine.

"Probably on the wrong setting." The Doctor examined the screwdriver. "Yep, here's the problem. Definitely not on the correct setting for glass."

As though he hadn't just created a bomb and destroyed half of the meager light, the Doctor adjusted the sonic screwdriver and aimed it at the other bulb. This one pulsed a bit brighter, then dimmed to its original state. The Doctor gave it a good tap, and its glow remained steady.

"Fixed," the Doctor announced proudly.

"Fixed? I can hardly see my hand in front of my face! I am _not_ staying back here with the angels, and neither is anyone else," Amy said.

"It isn't that dark," the Doctor said. He proved his point by tripping over one of the stolen dollies.

"On second thought, I'll see if there's a torch in the glove box."

The glove box yielded not only a torch, but also spare batteries. Whoever the lorry driver was, he was prepared.

With the lights sorted out, Amy was more cooperative. She helped the Doctor wheel the two trolleys down the ramp. She wasn't sure the trolleys would be able to support the weight of the angels—they'd only been used to unload groceries, and a few crates of lettuce was hardly equivalent to solid rock—but if Bob's skateboard had held out, maybe there was hope for the sturdier dollies.

The Doctor led the way up the hill. Upon arriving in front of the church, he withdrew his sonic screwdriver, adjusted the setting before using it this time, and unlocked the doors. He stuck his head in, made sure the three angels were still frozen, and then entered. Eager to get out of the rain, everyone else crowded in after him.

The floor of the church was wet, thanks to the gaping hole in the roof the angel had made three days previous. The hole wasn't a pure curse, however. It functioned as a skylight and brightened the church, if only a little. The trio of weeping angels was certainly easier to make out than they'd been the last time the Doctor had seen them.

Rory was the only one who had not yet seen the angels and curiosity drove him forward. The snarling expression on the three angels' faces then drove him backward.

"Those things are supposed to be _angels_?" Rory asked, appalled.

"Your species is the one that idolized them, not mine," the Doctor replied.

"But look at them! How did people ever think these monsters were good?"

"Imagine you've got a group of primitive people out farming. One of them disappears from his field, and his friends find a weeping angel there, instead. They assume the angel's come and taken old Fred up to heaven or nirvana or wherever nice blokes like old Fred go."

"That does not look like a face that would take you to nirvana."

"No, but weeping angels usually don't look like that. When they've got their faces covered, they look innocent and sad. You wouldn't think twice about them, except maybe to wonder if their sculptor was depressed."

It was quite hard for Rory to believe the weeping angels were ever capable of appearing angelic in any circumstance. Between and bared fangs and the clutching claws, they provoked only fear. Even without the teeth and talons, they were haunting. The eyes were enough. They were dead, empty, like the eyes of a shark or doll but worse. They were…

"Rory!"

Amy's sharp voice brought Rory back to his senses. He blinked and wondered how he'd gotten halfway across the church without noticing his feet had moved. His confusion wasn't eased when Amy and the Doctor each grabbed one of his arms and dragged him away from the malevolent statues.

"What's wrong?" Rory asked.

"You looked in the angel's eyes! Why did you do that?" Amy cried.

"Is that a bad thing?"

The Doctor spun Rory around and peered into his eyes. Rory suddenly felt very uncomfortable as a peculiar feeling of foreboding entered his mind. It was as if he'd done something unspeakably bad, and was about to get the worse punishment of his life.

"Is there anything in your eyes? Did you feel anything like sand or dust in your eyes?" the Doctor demanded.

"No! I feel fine. What's all this about?"

"Do you feel like you're turning to stone?"

"No."

"Close your eyes."

Rory closed them and kept them closed until the Doctor told him to open them. When he opened them, he saw the Doctor scanning him from head to foot with the sonic screwdriver.

"Doctor—"

"Shut up."

"But what—"

"Shut up!"

The Doctor ran the screwdriver down Rory once more before examining the results of the scan. Everyone waited with bated breath for the Doctor to announce what the screwdriver's readings revealed. Rory, though he had no idea what he'd just been scanned for, somehow knew his life depended on what the Doctor was going to say.

"Rory Pond, you were this close," the Doctor held his thumb and index finger less than a centimeter apart, "to turning into a weeping angel."

Rory's mouth fell open. He looked from the angels and then back to the Doctor.

"Never, ever, _ever_ look into the eyes of a weeping angel. If the image gets stuck in your head, that's the end of you," the Doctor explained. "The image will eventually become an independent angel, and you will die."

That had been close. Rory's lack of experience had almost ended in disaster, and it would only be a matter of time before something else went wrong. They had to move the angels before their luck ran out.

"No more wasting time. We've got two trolleys, three angels, and six people at our disposal. That means two people per angel, and two angels moved at once. Any questions?"

Five hands immediately shot into the air. The Doctor was dumbfounded. What hadn't he made clear?

"How are we going to arrange the groups?" Amy asked.

"I don't think I can push one of those angels. They look far too heavy," Eleanor said.

"I can probably manage," Rory said.

George offered his muscle as well. He'd been thrown around by the angels plenty of times, and wanted a chance for revenge.

The Doctor puzzled over his friends' attributes before dividing them into pairs. Amy would be paired with Rory; he would push the angel down to the lorry, and she would smack him if he became entranced by the angel's eyes again. Bob would go with George because George couldn't keep from blinking for more than twenty seconds and Bob's staring ability was sorely needed. That left the Doctor and Eleanor as the last pair.

Satisfied, the Doctor decided he and Rory would make the first run. With Eleanor beside him, the Doctor pushed one of the dollies towards the angels. He selected the angel that had nearly damned Rory, and maneuvered the winged block of awkwardness onto the dolly.

There was no telling whether or not the trolley's two wheels would bear the angel's weight at all, let alone down the muddy footpath, without trying. The Doctor leaned the dolly backwards and brought the angel an inch off the floor. Then it was three inches, then six, and then the Doctor was sure the angel had found a novel new way to break the spine of its enemy.

"Help!" the Doctor squeaked. It took all his strength to keep his knees from buckling and to keep the angel from driving him to the floor and crushing him.

Eleanor, despite her previous depreciation of her own strength, shoved against the precariously leaning dolly and managed to right it. The Doctor thanked her and then vigorously massaged his back. He didn't think he'd injured any of his vertebra, but he'd certainly come close. If the angel had been allowed to tilt any farther, disaster would have been assured.

More carefully this time, the Doctor raised the angel off the floor and pushed the trolley. There was a moment of resistance and then the wheels turned. The trolley had definitely not been designed to transport solid stone in such quantities, but it seemed to be accepting its burden so far.

The Doctor waited for Rory and Amy to position their angel on its dolly before pushing his own unhappy passenger towards the doors. Eleanor walked beside him and kept her eyes firmly on the angel. Behind him, he could hear the other dolly creak into motion.

Both teams crossed the threshold and the rain greeted them by eliminating any inch of dry clothing they might have had. The Doctor paused to swipe his hair from his eyes; he slicked back the stray strands to make sure they wouldn't come flopping in and blind him at an inopportune moment.

Once his hair was secure, the Doctor guided the trolley onto the footpath. It sunk into the mud, but not as far as he feared it would. The two wide wheels acted like snowshoes, and kept the trolley from being completely bogged down.

It took a good amount of pushing, but the dolly rolled through the muck, carving ruts that Rory was able to follow. As the hill became steeper, the Doctor had to slow down to avoid slipping. Amy cautioned Rory to do the same.

Creeping along like a pack of old turtles, both teams made it to the bottom of the hill without spilling their cargo. They paused to catch their breath and comment on how muddy their shoes and trousers were, and then buckled down for the final push. The last obstacle was the ramp, and while it was no steeper than the hill, forcing the angels uphill was bound to be harder and require more effort than letting gravity do its work.

"Doctor, we'd like to go first," Rory said.

The Doctor had no reason to argue. He wheeled his angel out of the way and let Rory have a go. With Amy beside him, Rory channeled his inner Roman, gripped the dolly's handles, and pushed for all he was worth.

Nearly to the top of the ramp, Rory ran out of momentum. He locked his feet to keep from sliding backwards, but couldn't muster enough energy to push the dolly the remaining few inches.

"You can do it, Rory! Come on!" Amy cheered.

"Listen to your wife!" the Doctor added.

Rory grinned at the encouragement. He dug deep and discovered an untapped reserve of strength. As though it was no heavier than a baby's pram, Rory pushed the angel up the remainder of the ramp and into the vegetable-smelling trailer.

Rory, feeling a bit like a superhero, was happy to wheel the Doctor's angel into the back of the lorry. Amy whistled and marveled at Rory's astounding power until he was blushing and begging her to stop. She made a final comment that turned Rory bright red to the tip of his nose and then, giggling, stifled herself.

The Doctor volunteered to return one of the dollies and pick up the last angel. Amy, Rory, and Eleanor had no problem waiting and watching the pair of angels in the lorry. They told the Doctor to hurry back, and he took off at a trot, lugging the mud-slicked trolley up the hill.

Ten minutes later, the last angel was safely on board. The first leg of the journey was complete. It had all gone rather well, all things considered.

Before setting out for Wester Drumlins, the Doctor had to deliver some bad news. Only one person got a comfy chair on this drive, and that was him. For safety, everyone who wasn't the driver had to sit in the back and make sure the angels didn't get a chance to escape their stone forms. There was plenty of moaning, and a few mutinous remarks, but eventually everyone except the Doctor plodded in and joined the angels.

The Doctor might have had all the room he wanted, but conditions were decidedly less spacious for everyone else. The weeping angels had to stretch their wings, and were even ruder about their selfish use of limited space than the one bastard on every airplane who insists on putting his seat in the lap of whoever sits behind him. The five humans arranged themselves so all eyes were on the angels. None of them were particularly comfortable or happy about the arrangements.

This was going to be the longest hour and a half in human history.

* * *

TBC


	29. A Hard Rain's aGonna Fall

As I'm sure none of you guessed from the title, this chapter has a little something extra. Scattered throughout it are the titles of six Bob Dylan songs, some quite famous and some not so much. Have fun.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Ninety minutes of doing nothing except staring at three stone angels that did nothing except stare back with the most repulsive faces imaginable was enough to crack even the sturdiest mind. The five people locked in the back of the lorry with the angels weren't in the best state of mind, either. Claustrophobia was beginning to creep in, and the primal fear of the dark they'd all thought they'd outgrown when they were seven was reinstating itself in their psyches. There were indeed monsters in the gloom, and the only things keeping them at bay were a single light bulb and a torch.

If they were going to arrive at Wester Drumlins with their sanity intact, they needed to take their minds—but not their eyes, never their eyes—off the angels. Unfortunately, nobody had had the insight to bring along up-tempo, mood-lifting music or anything else that would provide a pleasant non-visual distraction. They had nothing but each other, and nobody was feeling particularly Disney at that moment.

"Let's tell jokes," Rory suggested.

Rory's proposition was treated as a joke. How could anything be funny in the dismal atmosphere and in the face of timey-wimey death? It was utterly out of the question that anyone could retain a sense of humor under such conditions.

"Three blokes are stranded on a desert island. A magic lamp washes up on the shore and the genie inside says he'll grant the blokes three wishes. The first bloke says he wants to go home and the genie zaps him home. The second bloke wishes for the same thing. The last bloke says, 'I'm lonely and I wish I had my mates back.'"

There was silence in the wake of Bob's joke. The longer the silence stretched, the more Bob felt like he was trapped in every comedian's worst nightmare, stranded on stage with an audience that had surgically removed its funny bone. He was about to ask if the joke had really been _that_ bad when his sister began to make peculiar noises.

At first Bob thought Eleanor was choking. She was, he soon realized, at least in a way. Not a way that could kill her, just a way that could make her snort like a pig if she kept it up long enough.

Eleanor couldn't hold back her laughter any longer. She stopped fighting it and let it clutch and shake her. As Bob expected, Eleanor punctuated her peals of laughter with porcine noises.

Laughter, like yawning, was contagious. Eleanor's rib-busting laughter sparked weaker reactions in everyone else. Though the joke wasn't going to get Bob an act in Las Vegas—and wouldn't have earned more than polite chuckles from anyone in the lorry on a normal day—it was enough of an ice-breaker to cause wild mood swings.

"Tell another one," Eleanor said once she had control of herself again.

"What has eight legs, eight eyes, and eight hooks?" Bob asked. "Eight pirates!"

There was another round of laughter, and requests for more jokes. Bob was a seasoned connoisseur of humor in all its stripes and forms, and had amassed a repertoire of hundreds of jokes. Happy to make use of his vast reserves of knowledge, he dove straight into his police-themed material.

The Doctor felt bad for his friends. Here he was, with this excellent view of never-ending buckets of rain, and they had nothing to look at but the angels. The monotony of their situation could only be outweighed by the terror of being confined to the back of a lorry with a trio of perpetually enraged space-rocks. The smell of old cabbage permeating the whole operation couldn't have made the situation any better for them, either, the Doctor reckoned. Weeping angels and cabbage, a combination foul enough to make the most hardened stoic cry tears of rage at the gross unfairness of it all.

"Cabbages are horrible. Whoever first planted them must not have had taste buds. I wonder if I could go back in time and stop them from ever germinating. I don't suppose it's a fixed event, and even if it is, who's going to care? People who like sauerkraut, I suppose." The Doctor, when denied companionship, found his own voice almost as good as another person's.

As the hour and a half wound down, the Doctor somehow managed to get into an argument with himself, lose that argument, and then sit in uncomfortable silence with himself until he got up the nerve to apologize to himself and accept the apology. By the time he arrived at the chained gate that did a very poor job of keeping trespassers out of the decaying house, he was on friendly terms with himself. That was good, because it was never a wise idea to go into a life-threatening situation angry.

The Doctor parked the lorry and hoped nobody would find it suspicious enough to report to the police. He'd have a bugger of a time explaining what a delivery lorry with fresh produce painted on the side of it was doing at Wester Drumlins, and what identical stone angel triplets, plus five people, plus one Time Lord were doing there with it. Even with the psychic paper's help, it would be hard convincing the police that Bob was an apprentice stone mason and not a runaway who had fallen in with seedy characters.

The longer the Doctor lingered, thinking about excuses, the more likely he was to need them. He stopped dawdling, stuck the lorry's keys into his pocket, wished he'd had the foresight to remove some of the crap from his pockets, and hoped the keys wouldn't disappear if he needed to find them in a hurry.

The early morning rain had become a late morning rain without changing in intensity. The Doctor exited the lorry and his clothes, which hadn't dried much in the humid cabin, were wet through and through before he got to the rear of the lorry. He unlocked the latch, and slid open the door.

He half-expected the human passengers to pour out _en masse_ as though escaping a fire. There was no mad rush for the outside world; there was hardly any movement at all. Amy's torch bobbed a little as the door opened, but beyond that there was nothing.

"Is everything alright in here?" the Doctor called.

"We're fine, Doctor. Just waiting for the punch line. Bob's been telling jokes," Amy replied.

"Bob's telling jokes? What? How? Aren't there weeping angels in there? Please tell me they didn't vanish unless there's a convincing, plausible explanation to put my mind at ease."

"The angels are still here, but we learned to live with them. Now do you mind?"

"Not at all! I _love_ standing in the rain. It's my favorite thing besides fish fingers and custard!"

"Just ignore him, Bob. He hates not being the center of attention."

Bob did as Amy suggested and paid no attention to the Doctor's crossed arms and tapping foot and continued where he left off. "And the snail says, 'Why in the bloody hell did you do that? I only wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood!'"

Everyone had a merry little laugh, except for the Doctor. He was sorely disappointed he hadn't heard the beginning, because, for as many years as he'd lived, he'd never heard a good snail joke before. Maybe he could coerce the whole joke out of Bob later; the sonic screwdriver would certainly be enough of an incentive.

And speaking of the sonic screwdriver, it had a job the Doctor needed it to do. He pulled it from his pocket and walked up to the locked gate. He ignored the numerous signs that warned against trespassing and extolled the dangers awaiting anyone stupid enough to do what the Doctor was doing, and illegally let himself in. The Doctor shoved open the gates, which didn't squeak nearly as much as he'd expected, and presented the decaying splendor of Wester Drumlins to his friends.

"Uh, Doctor, don't you think that house is scary enough as it is?" Rory asked.

"If you think it's scary now, wait until you see what's in the basement!" the Time Lord replied.

"I'd really rather not."

"Then stay here. We'll need someone to stay behind and watch the spare angel, and you've got the job if you want it."

"Oh no, I'm not letting you and Amy alone with those angels." Rory mentally added that he would go absolutely barmy if he had to stay on the truck with the lonely assassins any longer. Bob's jokes had proved to be a fine distraction, but now the angels were reminding him of how horrible they were.

The Doctor hadn't expected Rory to stand guard—he'd done more than enough of that as the Last Centurion. A pair would still have to remain behind to stare at the odd angel out, but the Doctor was happier to have Rory with him. The Ponds were an indispensible couple, and the Doctor needed their strength and bravery.

"I don't mind staying here," Eleanor said. "It's foul, but it's shelter from the storm."

As much as Bob wanted to see the interior of the house that looked like it had been transported from _The Legend of Hell House_, he had a duty to protect his sister. He sullenly volunteered to stay with the lorry. The Doctor thanked him and promised him a session with the sonic screwdriver under only limited supervision.

George and Rory manned the dollies. Rory was getting quite good at maneuvering his angel, despite the weight and awkward wings. Under Rory's guidance, both angels were resting in the rain in under two minutes.

After promising Bob and Eleanor that they'd be back shortly for the last angel, the Doctor led his group through the gate. Wester Drumlin loomed larger and creepier with each illicit step they took towards the abandoned house. Amy pressed herself closer to Rory, and George did likewise. Without meaning to, the three of them slowed down. The Doctor was at the locked front door before Amy, George, and Rory had crossed half the distance between the TARDIS and the house.

The Doctor had the door wide open before he realized he was standing alone on the threshold. He looked behind him and saw the Ponds and George limping along. They were dragging their feet and the Doctor was not in the mood to tolerate dawdling.

"Oh, come on! It's not _that_ scary! There are places that make this look like your gran's kitchen," the Doctor said.

"If your gran was Frankenstein, maybe!" Amy replied.

"I've met Frankenstein. Or his Time Lord equivalent. His name was Morbius, and he had this great claw and his brain lived in a jar. Very nasty fellow."

"His brain was in a jar, Doctor. How often are people like that nice?" Rory asked.

"That's being judgmental. Just because someone's been reduced to a cerebral unit that's no reason to believe they're evil or want to cut off your head and wear it."

"Yeah, all this talk about disembodied brains, not helping!" Amy groused.

The Doctor shrugged. It wasn't his fault humans had a distrust of any brain in a bottle. That was Hollywood's mischaracterization, parading around films like _They Saved Hitler's Brain_ and _The Brain that Wouldn't Die_ that had no basis in reality. Yes, some brains in jars were psychopathic Time Lords hell-bent on revenge; most weren't even conscious of their pickled existence, and were no more dangerous than any other free-floating organ.

By the time the Doctor finished his internal monologue on the injustice done to brains, his friends had finally caught up to him. They waited for him to enter the house before following reluctantly.

Wester Drumlins had hardly changed since the Doctor had seen it four years previously. Well, four years, and then the involuntary trip to 1969, and then a few hundred years cavorting around the universe and...all twisted timelines aside, the place was still a moldy old eyesore with peeling wallpaper and water damage.

"Where's the basement?" George asked.

"Underneath this floor," the Doctor replied, stomping down on the wood beneath him.

George regarded the Doctor with a scowl. However clever the Doctor assumed himself to be, George still didn't care for his jokes. Not in the slightest.

"Where are the stairs to the basement, then?"

"Uh. Hmm. George, I want you to stop asking such difficult questions and let me think."

The Doctor tried a little past-life regression and put himself in his erstwhile regeneration's shoes. He recalled creeping into Wester Drumlins with Martha beside him, and conducting a room-by-room search for the spawning space lizards they'd originally been investigating. Had they searched the basement? Of course they had. Lizards liked dark places to do their spawning.

"It's all coming back to me! This way! Allonsy!"

As though he'd forgotten about his friends' angelic burdens, the Doctor bolted down the hallway. He turned left abruptly and disappeared from view.

"I'm not running," Rory said.

"He'll notice we're missing. Eventually," Amy said.

Amy was proven correct. A sheepish Doctor returned and waited for George and Rory to roll the angels up the corridor. With much less bounce in his step, the Doctor led them along.

"This is it," the Doctor announced, stopping in front of a closed door.

He reached a hand for the doorknob and suddenly froze. Amy started to ask him what was wrong when he pressed a finger to his lips to shush her. Very slowly, he leaned forward and pressed his ear against the wood.

"Doctor?" Amy whispered.

The Doctor backed away from the door and motioned for everyone else to join him in retreat. In the preternatural silence, the trolleys' groaning wheels sounded like a rolling stone tumbling down a mountain made of fine china and glassware. There was universal wincing and grimacing at the squeaking.

"What is it?" Amy asked again.

"There's someone on the stairs," the Doctor replied.

"What? Who?" Rory was about a hundred decibels louder than he'd intended to be.

"I don't know, but we need to find out. I'm going to open the door."

"Are you sure?"

"We can't just ignore it, Pond! If they've been in the basement, they've seen the weeping angels. They might even _be_ the weeping angels!"

Set against further argument, the Doctor inched forward. He gingerly extended his hand and gripped the doorknob. Sure to blink in preparation, the Doctor turned the knob.

Moving like lightning, the Doctor flung the door open. He then started screaming.

* * *

Both _They Saved Hitler's Brain_ and _The Brain that Wouldn't Die_ are real films from the 1960's

Also, please pardon the lameness of my jokes. They're not originals; I got them from various websites.

Morbius is a villain from the Fourth Doctor's era, just in case anyone's not familiar with the glory that is Tom Baker.


	30. Familiar Faces

Terribly sorry about the wait. Readjusting to schoolwork zapped all my motivation for a while, but I should be back in the groove now.

Thanks for the reviews and for prodding me to get moving with this chapter. The next chapter should not take three weeks.

* * *

The Doctor's scream was emulated and amplified by five other voices. Amy, Rory, and George all clutched each other, forming a protective network of arms. Too panicked to properly process what he'd seen, the Doctor leapt backwards like a kangaroo. He ended up colliding with one of the angels, and getting his jacket snagged on its outstretched talons, which only made him scream again. Whatever was on the stairs proved itself to be either human, or very good at mimicking the sounds terrified humans made.

With a mighty amount of struggling, the Doctor managed to untangle himself from the angel and crawl behind it. His friends joined him, using the angels as a terrifying barrier against the mysterious strangers on the stairs. They waited, their eyes wide, for someone or something to emerge from the basement.

When, after a full minute, nobody appeared, the Doctor summoned up the bravery to try communicating with the basement-dwellers. Leaving his friends behind the snarling stone barricade, the Doctor whipped out his sonic screwdriver and edged towards the open doorway.

"Whoever's down there, show yourself. We aren't here to hurt you, I promise. It isn't safe in the basement, though, I'm afraid. The angels—"

"How do you know about the angels?" a woman, judging by the voice, asked from the stairwell.

"I've met them before."

"So have I!"

"Then we've got something in common. Let me see your face."

Curiosity got the better of the people on the stairs and they revealed themselves. One was male, the other was female, and both of them were young. The man had a bit of a beard and didn't look like he took much pleasure in personal grooming. The woman was the braver of the pair, and had her torch raised like a cudgel; she was ready to brain anyone who threatened her.

"I don't believe it," the Doctor said, grinning madly.

"Oh my God, look behind you! There's two more of them! Run!" the scruffy man suddenly shouted, pointing behind the Doctor.

"What, the weeping angels? Don't worry about them. I came prepared this time. I've brought along more eyes," the Time Lord said.

"How are there more of them? Did you _bring_ them here? Did you?" The woman was edging towards hysteria.

The man only exasperated the situation by saying, "He said he brought them. Just now, he said he'd 'brought more' this time! Maybe he brought them last time, too! Maybe he works for them!"

"I don't work for them," the Doctor tried to assure the panicking pair.

"Did you bring them here? Yes or no, did you?" the woman asked.

Knowing it wasn't going to be received well, the Doctor replied affirmatively. Yes, he'd willingly and knowingly transported weeping angels to Wester Drumlins, with full understanding of what the monsters were and how dangerous they could be.

"I know what they did to you, Sally Sparrow. And to you, Larry Nightingale," the Doctor said.

As expected, the Doctor became the mortal enemy of Sally and Larry. Like a single entity they turned on him, ready to make him pay for all the terror he and his angels had caused. Unless he wanted to get whacked upside the head with Sally's torch, he figured he had mere seconds to calm them.

"Beware the weeping angels," the Doctor blurted out. "The angels have the phone box. Creatures from another world. Lonely assassins, they're called. No one quite knows where they came from, but they're as old as the universe."

Sally and Larry simultaneously froze. Though they hadn't heard those words in years, each of them had a perfect recollection of the man who said them. The Doctor, speaking on DVDs, from the year 1969. Speaking across time to Sally Sparrow and Larry Nightingale about his stolen box and the alien angels that could destroy the world if they ever got inside.

"But…how?" Sally finally asked.

"Those were my words. I'm him. I'm the Doctor."

"But you can't be! He doesn't look anything like you! He's taller, and his hair is spiked and he doesn't wear a bowtie!"

"Sally, I travel through time and space inside a blue police box that's bigger on the inside. I fight monsters that turn to stone when you look at them, and can move faster than the eye can blink. Is a new face such a stretch?"

"But those angels behind you…"

"You could always let me explain, eh?"

Sally and Larry dropping their fighting poses let those who were hiding behind the angels know the danger had passed. Amy, Rory, and George stood up and made their presences known.

"Amy, Rory, and George, meet Larry and Sally. Larry and Sally, meet Amy, Rory, and George. Now that we've all got names, let me bring both parties up to speed. Sally and Larry returned my TARDIS to me when the weeping angels sent me to 1969. Amy, Rory, George and I are in the process of getting these angels—don't worry, we've got them under control—into the basement where they can join your angels. Then we're all going to get some fish and chips—not the angels, of course, just those among us that eat actual food—and you're welcome to come along," the Doctor explained.

The two groups, with the Doctor standing awkwardly between them, regarded each other. As though drawn by a strange parallel, Amy and Rory, and Sally and Larry, felt an instant connection. George, having nobody to serve as his equivalent, kept his eyes on the angels.

"There, we're all friends now. Shall we commence with throwing the angels down the stairs?" the Doctor asked.

"Are you sure it's a good idea? I know you're 'the Doctor' and brilliant beyond all reason, but do we really want more angels in the basement?" Larry said.

"I don't have anywhere else to put them. I did think this out; I built a macaroni model of England and everything."

"I still don't like it. It's creepy enough to come here and see our four angels."

"It's only three more. That's not so terrible, not when you've seen catacombs full of them."

"Catacombs? No, don't tell me! I like being able to sleep at night."

To avoid a lifetime of chronic insomnia, Sally and Larry agreed to forego all further protests or questions and let the Doctor do whatever craziness he thought was best. Under the Doctor's direction, Rory and George wheeled their angels forward. Everyone else crowded around to watch the angels, both for the pleasure of seeing them roll down the stairs, and to make sure they were never out of sight. Should the angels unfreeze, they would instantly fill will righteous, murderous rage.

The cellar door wasn't wide enough to admit both angels at once, so Rory went first. He rolled the dolly to the edge of the stairs, and then tipped it forward. The angel did not tumble end over end as everyone hoped it would, but slid down on its belly like a penguin. It skidded to the bottom of the stairs and stopped.

"It was better with the skateboard," Amy said.

"Should we dump the second one, or move the first one somewhere?" George asked.

"I'll go down there, just in case yours knocks that one out of your line of sight." The Doctor took the steps two at a time and once he was standing in the dusty gloom told George to do his thing.

George tilted his trolley and gravity took the angel. Its spread wings were as useless as an emu's, and the angel fell gracelessly. It hit the steps but instead of sliding down them as the first angel had done, the second fell straight through the stairs. There was a rendering and splintering of weakened wood giving way beneath the stony bulk, and then the angel was gone. Before George could stick his head over the hole that had appeared suddenly in the stairs, and before the Doctor could lower his eyes, the angel had regained its freedom.

"Not good! Oh, very, horribly, definitely not good! All of you, mind the hole and get down here!"

While his friends were left pondering how to conquer the five-foot gap that separated them from the rest of the stairs, the Doctor considered how he'd best use his single pair of eyes. Until reinforcements arrived—which would take a while, unless Rory developed Stretch Armstrong powers—it would be his sole responsibility to keep the mobile angel from freeing any of its comrades.

Standing in the middle of the floor, exposed on all sides and practically begging the angel to rush up and kill him, seemed counterproductive. The Doctor hastily scurried across the cellar until he had a wall to his back and the quartet of angels fully visible in front of him. He then began the familiar game of not blinking.

"Maybe one of us can jump it," Rory suggested. "Not me—I was rubbish at PE—but someone else."

Despite the ten foot drop should she miss, the likelihood the whole staircase would collapse beneath her, and the brutal mauling the weeping angel would administer to anyone who happened to fall through the hole, Amy was willing to try. She had no room to get a running start—the doorway was crowded with people staring down at the weeping angel at the foot of the stairs—but she went for it anyway. Her feet were on the cusp of the hole when Rory snatched her and, like an octopus, wrapped his arms around her.

"When I said 'someone else,' I meant someone not you," Rory said.

"The Doctor needs us!" Amy freed herself from Rory's grasp.

Before Rory could turn into a human straitjacket again, Amy gave an excellent demonstration of the standing long jump. She propelled herself forward and felt solid wood beneath her feet as she landed. Unfortunately, the stability didn't last. The step had been cracked by the falling angel, and the introduction of Amy's weight finished it off.

As her perch disappeared beneath her, Amy escaped to the next step with not a second to spare. She wasted no time descending the rest of the stairs, afraid any dallying would bring the whole damaged structure down on her. When her feet finally touched the dirt floor, Amy felt an overwhelming desire to fall to her knees and kiss the soil. It was only when she remembered that she was now in the realm of the weeping angel that her relief dissipated.

"Pond, over here!"

The Doctor's eyes had grown so dry that, out of desperation, he'd been forced to manually pry them open with his fingers to stop from blinking. Amy saw how distressed he was and hurried across the no man's land of the cellar. Once she was by his side, the Time Lord allowed his tortured eyes the mercy they'd been yearning for.

"So what's the plan?" Amy asked as the Doctor soothed his burning eyes.

"The what? Plan? I haven't got one. I had one, but it imploded. That's the problem with plans. They're unreliable," the Doctor replied.

"Can't you make a new plan?"

"Of course I can! What a silly question, Pond."

"What's the new plan, then?"

"I haven't the faintest clue."

Amy wasn't sure whether she wanted to curl up in the corner or slap the Doctor until those brilliant brain cells of his started firing properly.

Rory was distraught. Amy was always doing this to him, always rushing headlong into danger, always making him chase after her. If he wanted to follow her this time, he had to find a way over that gaping hole. Maybe he could jump it like Amy had. And maybe that was the stupidest idea he'd ever had. And maybe it didn't matter how stupid it was, because Amy and the Doctor were off fighting evil space angels and they needed the Last Centurion's help.

"Right, I can do this," Rory said to himself.

Before his sense of self preservation could get the better of him, Rory crossed his fingers and jumped. He knew almost instantaneously that there hadn't been anywhere near sufficient spring in his knees to carry him all the way across. He reached out as he fell and managed to snag, with one hand, the edge of a step. His fingers slipped on the smooth wood and Rory's stomach abruptly dropped out his feet.

A literal inch from disaster, Rory managed to swing his other arm up and get a firmer hold just as his stressed fingers lost all traction. His feet kicked the air as though it would lend him purchase. Clinging precariously, unable to pull himself up and unwilling to let himself fall into the unknown, Rory was trapped.

Seeing her husband hanging by a hand, Amy's instinctive reaction was to run and save him. She was well on her way to rescuing Rory when the Doctor grabbed her by the wrist and stopped her. Amy tried to yank her arm from the Doctor's grasp but he held firm.

"What are you doing? We've got to help Rory!" Amy cried.

"Trust me, he's got to help himself."

"It won't take long! Please, Doctor, I'll be back before you need to blink."

The Time Lord shook his head. "This hasn't got anything to do with the angels, only with Rory. He has to do this on his own."

Reluctantly, Amy stopped struggling. The Doctor let her go and, though it was making her squirm, she stood down.

"Roranicus Pondicus, are you going to let some stairs keep you from your Amelia? She's in terrible danger right now, you know. We haven't the slightest clue where the missing angel is. It could be lurking anywhere, ready to kill us both in the blink of an eye. Having you down here would make it so much safer," the Doctor said.

Rory, his arm cramping and his fingers growing slick with sweat, embraced the Doctor's words. They were just what Rory needed to kick the taunts of his sadistic PE teacher out of his mind. He hadn't been able to do a pull-up back then—performance anxiety more than physical weakness—but why should that stop him now? He was a new Rory, a Rory who had been a part of the greatest army the world had ever seen, even if that had technically been in an alternate timeline or dimension of whatever and he'd been made of living plastic. What kind of plastic, Roman, arse-kicking machine was going to fail his wife because of poor upper-body strength? Not this kind!

As though he had the muscles of Thor, Rory hauled himself out of the hole with remarkable ease. Once free, he gave Amy a thumbs-up to show how awesomely he had handled the situation. It was then that he noticed his hands were full of splinters. Suddenly he didn't feel quite so awesome.

Dropping his hands, Rory jogged across the floor while Amy and the Doctor made sure the angel didn't carry him off. He arrived safely and Amy threw her arms around his neck.

"I knew you could do it!" she squealed.

"Yeah, 'course I could! I mean, it was just a _hole_ and I…I am—"

"Not looking at the angels and not helping," the Doctor said.

Amy and Rory realized their hugging was getting in the way of keeping their eyes where they needed to be. They broke apart awkwardly. The Doctor supposed the proper thing to do would be to appear cross—hugging was lovely, but dying was bad and the badness of dying definitely trumped the loveliness of hugging—but he couldn't manage anything but a smile. Even confined to a dank, nasty basement with the oldest psychopaths in the universe, the Ponds couldn't keep their hands off each other.

The first five minutes of staring down four vicious, snarling angels inspired plenty of adrenaline production. The second five minutes, not so much. The third five minutes, that was just boring. The weeping angels, after fifteen minutes of continuous staring, were hardly more exciting than ornamental horticulture. Surely, Rory figured, they weren't going to do this forever.

"Doctor, when are we actually going to do something?" Rory asked.

"Do something? We're doing something right now. We're talking. And Amy is yawning. And we're breathing. Look, we're doing lots of things."

"I meant something about the angels. We can't just stand here until that other angel wanders into view. That's not the plan, is it?"

"Nope. There's no plan, so if the plan doesn't exist, that can't be it. Elementary logic, my dear Pond."

Rory groaned. He knew the Doctor was running him in circles, and he wasn't enjoying it.

"If you're not going to take this seriously, then I am," Rory said. "I'll think of a plan, and it will be brilliant."

Rory lapsed into contemplative silence. He emerged defeated a few minutes later.

"Don't worry about it, Rory. One of us will think of something eventually. My money's on me, but feel free to bet otherwise," the Doctor said.

"Shouldn't you be worried just a little? Or at least pretend this is serious?" Rory asked.

The Doctor flailed his arms. "Ah, someone help, I'm terrified of the scary monsters! There, happy?"

"Doctor!" Amy scolded.

"You can't rush me. I am trying. Dealing with weeping angels requires a lot of brain power. Nothing's going to happen before I devise something brilliant and outlandish."

The sole light bulb overhead flickered. The Doctor's words turned around and sunk their teeth into his backside.

"We changed that bulb half an hour ago!" Sally exclaimed. "It shouldn't be doing that!"

"The angel's draining the power," the Doctor explained.

"It's teaching you a lesson in humility, that's what it's doing," Rory said.

The bulb flickered again. In the brief second the cellar was in darkness, the rogue angel had shown itself. It stood halfway across the room, and its path was clear.

"Do something, Doctor!" Amy shouted.

The light blinked off a third time, this time staying dark longer. By the time it sputtered back to life, the angel was a scant ten feet away.

Old wiring was no match for the weeping angel, but the Doctor hoped his sonic screwdriver would fare better. He pulled it out, turned it on, and waited. Until the light overhead went out, there was no way to tell if the sonic's glow would be powerful enough to envelop the Doctor, the Ponds, and the quartet of frozen angels. If even one of the angels was left out of sight, the free angel would waste no time liberating it.

The cellar was plunged into darkness. Amy and Rory pressed against the Doctor, trying to stay as close to the protective glow of the sonic screwdriver as possible. The green glow faded as it radiated out, but was just strong enough keep the four angels in sight.

"It's alright. It can't come any closer unless it wants to been seen," the Doctor said.

"That's great, but what are we going to do? Can it drain the sonic, too?" Amy asked.

"I don't know. These screwdrivers are tough."

There was an ungodly crash from somewhere. In the darkness, it was impossible to say exactly where it had originated from. It didn't sound particularly close, yet it didn't sound like it had come from the far side of the basement.

"Whatever that was, it was bad, wasn't it?" Rory said.

"Yes, I'd assume so."

* * *

TBC


	31. Holes

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

An unexplained crash in a house haunted by alien angels couldn't just be noted, filed away, and ignored from that point forward. It demanded further investigation. Since the Doctor doubted the Ghost Busters or Scooby Doo, being fictional characters, would ever be granted passports, that left him responsible for discovering the source of the sound. He had a rather good idea of what it was and what had caused it, but he needed to be sure. It was a matter of life and death.

"Amelia, Rory, I've got to leave you for a bit," the Doctor said.

"What? Why?" Amy asked.

"The angel's done something clever, and if I don't stop it, it's going to murder us. Here, Amy, you take the sonic. Keep your eyes on these four angels."

Amy refused the sonic screwdriver. "You can't cross the cellar in the dark, Doctor! The angel's out there somewhere."

"No, I don't think it is."

"Where's it gone then?"

"Upstairs, to flank them." The Doctor gestured towards the group assembled at the top of the stairs. "That crash was the angel bringing down a portion of the floor above us."

"What if you're wrong? What if the crash was just a trap, a diversion? What if the angel's trying to lure one of us away from the light?" Rory asked.

"There you are, strategizing like a proper centurion. That's possible, but I prefer my theory. See, my theory lets me live. With your theory, the second I step outside the light, I'm gone."

That was not the most comforting line to end the conversation with, and when the Doctor tried to hand Amy the sonic screwdriver, she again refused it. It was only when he gave her a good, stern "Pond," that she reluctantly accepted the sonic. She wasn't happy about the arrangement, though.

"Right, good. Remember: eyes on the angels at all times. One mobile angel I can handle; five is asking a bit much."

Before he ventured into the void between the sonic's green glow and the light produced by Sally's torch, the Doctor needed to warn the group on the stairs that he was coming and they needed to make room. Each member of the group balked at the idea of watching the angel at the bottom of the stairs while simultaneously providing enough room for the Doctor to leap across the gap in the steps. The staircase was narrow, and they were crowded as it was. They also wondered how the Doctor was going to leap up and over a chasm that had nearly swallowed Amy and Rory already.

"Don't you dare die, Doctor," Amy said.

"I hope I'm wrong and you're right," Rory added. "Though being smarter than you for once would feel good."

The Doctor nodded, took a deep breath, and put his best foot forward. His instincts demanded he stop while he was still within the protective circle of light, but, as was almost always the case, he ignored them. He wasn't sure why his survival instincts bothered anymore; they should have atrophied away from disuse or depression eons ago.

A few steps farther and the Doctor was in the darkness. If the angel was with him in the dark, the Doctor wondered if it would take him now, or wait until he dared to hope he was safe before snatching him away. He guessed it would probably be the latter.

Whether or not the weeping angel was lying in wait like a camouflaged guerilla hardly mattered. There was little the Doctor could do to stop it if it wanted him dead. Even if he ran back to the Ponds, the angel would be on him before he'd get within the screwdriver's glow. He'd never make it to Sally's torchlight, no matter how fast he ran. And if his courage failed him and he froze with indecision, he'd be a sitting target.

If he was going to die, he was going to die with dignity. The Doctor fixed his eyes on the stairs and, with all the decorum of a Sontaran commander, marched toward the light.

Until something somewhere creaked.

Then he ran like all of the Emperor Dalek's forces were on his tail.

The Doctor leapt over the fallen angel at the bottom of the stairs and was scrambling up the steps on his hands and knees before he realized he was safe. He stopped just short of falling through the hole. That would have been beyond brilliant, to cross the dark no man's land unscathed only to blindly rush right into a pitfall. With his luck, he would have landed on his head, fractured his skull, and developed a mighty case of amnesia.

The Time Lord took a moment to collect himself before telling the Ponds he had arrived alive. They responded with cheers. Now that the Ponds knew he was alright, the Doctor figured it was high time to risk his neck again. He stood up, brushed the dust from his knees, and eyed the gaping hole that kept him from where he needed to go.

"There is no way you're going to make it," George predicted.

"You're going in the hole," Larry agreed.

"Doctor, maybe you should reconsider," Sally said.

"There isn't time! And even if there was, I am not going back down there where it's dark," the Doctor replied.

Before any of the three could protest his doomed plan, the Doctor retreated a few steps to give himself a running start. Seeing there was no way to talk sense into the Doctor, and sure he wasn't going to hurdle the hole without help, Larry and George prepared to catch him. Sally kept her eyes and torch trained on the angel.

The Doctor ran forward and launched himself off the final step. For a moment he thumbed his nose at gravity. In retaliation for this insolence, gravity dropped Ayer's Rock on his head. The Doctor went from being an eagle to a penguin in the span of a second.

"Grab him!" Sally screamed when it became apparent the Doctor was not going to make a safe landing.

Larry and George reached for the Doctor's hands. Larry missed his hand but George managed to seize the Doctor by the wrist. The Doctor found himself hanging with all his weight supported by the bones of his forearm. It was not a particularly pleasant experience, and he waved his free hand around until Larry was able to grab it.

"Haul me up! Pull! Mush!" the Doctor said.

"If you'd stop wiggling, it would be easier!" Larry replied.

"I'm wiggling because I'm stuck in a dark hole and you two won't move fast enough!" The Doctor gave the air a frustrated kick to show his impatience. George's hold on his wrist slipped. The Doctor was cured of his restlessness.

With a great deal of heaving, struggling, and sweating, George and Larry finally hoisted the Doctor from the hole. By means of incredible contortion, Sally somehow managed to keep the angel in sight. She was at least as happy as the Doctor when the ordeal was done. Watching the angel was much easier when the two men in front of her weren't moving and swearing all the time.

"Now that you're here, maybe you can explain what the big emergency was. Why'd you have to get upstairs so badly?" Larry asked.

"Because that's where the angel is. I think. Now that I crossed the basement and didn't have my head unscrewed, I'm almost positive. So I've got to find it," the Doctor explained.

"That noise was-"

"The angel burrowing through the floor. Yes. It must have emerged into one of these rooms." The Doctor gestured randomly with his arm.

Wester Drumlins was no tiny, woodland cottage. It offered plenty of space, both inside the house and outside in the garden, for a living statue to hide. One Time Lord conducting a room to room search could expect to be at his task for a while.

"Shouldn't one of us come with you? If you do find the angel, you'll have to watch it alone," Sally said.

"I can't risk weakening the defenses here. One of you will have to watch the others' backs so the angel doesn't sneak up on you. There has to be three people: two to watch the angel downstairs, and one to guard the rear."

"Yeah, but what'll happen if you do find the angel? You, uh, blue box people still have to blink, don't you?" Larry asked.

"Then I'll shout very loudly, and whoever can run the fastest without tripping over their own feet should come and help me."

"Doctor, do you ever have any plans that don't involve you doing ridiculously stupid things?" George asked.

"Oh yes, all the time! You're just never around for them."

With that, the Doctor began the search for the missing angel.

He tried the rooms closest to the cellar door and found one was empty of everything except a thick layer of dust and some spider webs. He left that room and entered the second, where he discovered a creepy tableau: there was a table, complete with rotting tablecloth, around which were stationed three chairs and upon which were complete sets of dishware. Asides from the filth and age, it looked like a small family was about to sit down for a meal.

The angel was in neither of the rooms, and the floors lacked any major holes. The Doctor closed the doors to both rooms. He hadn't expected to find the angel so easily, and the winged nightmare hadn't disappointed.

The next door opened on a cupboard that was too small to admit the angel. The Doctor slammed the door and proceeded down the hall.

"Come out, come out wherever you are!" the Doctor called to the empty stretch of hallway.

As expected, asking the angel to show itself failed. The Doctor had no choice but to keep opening doors until he stumbled upon the right room. As he walked, he wondered how many rooms Wester Drumlins had. Surely fewer than the TARDIS contained, but still an impressive number. An infuriating number, really. The Doctor was positive the architects wouldn't have been so ambitious if they'd known monsters would come to dwell within the walls.

Now almost at the opposite end of the house, the Doctor found himself slamming the doors with vigor and muttering nasty things to peeling wallpaper. The angel had laid a simple but effective trap, and the Doctor knew he'd willingly blundered into it. If he found the angel, he was so far removed from backup that by the time it arrived, he would probably have blinked and the angel would be gone again.

The Doctor was in such a foul mood and so used to slamming doors closed almost as soon as he opened them that he shut himself out of the room he'd been looking for. His brain rebooted and, thankful nobody had witnessed his stupidity, the Doctor reopened the door.

In the center of the room there was an enormous hole, like the entrance to a giant woodchuck's burrow. Before stepping into the room, the Doctor scanned it for any sign of the angel. He was careful to check the ceiling, as well. Finding no angel among the scattered, dust-cloth-draped furniture, the Doctor entered.

Carefully skirting the hole, the Doctor circled the room and took the time to check _under_ every shrouded chair and table. Just to make sure the angel hadn't shrunken and hidden beneath the furniture. Not that they could do that. He was just being thorough.

Finding no angel, miniaturized or otherwise, the Doctor threw up his hands in defeat. The bloody thing must have returned to the basement, the Doctor figured. It had heard him coming—it was impossible to be sneaky on a floor of creaking, warped boards—and it had popped back inside its hole. As soon as he left, it would emerge and laugh at him in that skin-crawling way weeping angels laughed.

The Doctor shook his head and turned to leave. He stayed alert as he walked for the door, as he expected the angel to find his exposed back an irresistible target. He was pleasantly surprised to reach the door unharmed.

The Doctor stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him. He waited for five seconds, his ears straining to catch any movement from the other side of the door. He thought he heard the soft creaking of a board, and burst into the room again.

"I've got you now! I…bugger!"

His ears had betrayed him. There was no angel, only the stupid hole. The Doctor glared at the hole. He hated holes. They were always trying to eat him or his friends. The world would be much better off if all the holes filled themselves in and went away.

The Doctor strode to the lip of the hole would have launched into a tirade, berating the hole and all its kind, if not for another noise, this one directly behind him and definitely not imaginary. It was the long squeal of a rusty door hinge swinging shut.

"You're behind me, aren't you?" the Doctor asked.

There was no reply, which meant nothing, considering the taciturnity of the weeping angel species.

The Doctor remained still and listened. Waited. With a normal attacker, he would be able to hear breathing, footfalls, _something_ that let him know his enemy was moving. The angel, if it was there and the door hadn't been closed by a draft or a ghost, was as silent as the stone that composed it.

"I'm going to turn around now," the Doctor said.

He steeled himself and began to turn. For the briefest of seconds he heard something like a howling gust of wind, and then he was crushed against the far wall. His nose was pressed against the wallpaper and a hand grasped his neck with such force it threatened to break the vertebrae. There was no way for him to turn his head and freeze the angel.

He was going to die staring at a faded pattern of roses.

* * *

TBC


	32. Grand Theft Brain

Sorry about the delays. Though I'm sure nobody wants to hear me complain, I had writer's block and college courses sometimes require actual work. Anyway, at least one of those problems is solved (hopefully) and the next chapter should be a bit quicker.

In other news, there was an inconsistency (read stupid goof on my part) in the last chapter that has since been fixed.

Happy Thanksgiving to the US readers.

And, of course, thanks for the reviews!

* * *

As he stood with his face pressed against the wall and his life in the weeping angel's talons, the Doctor had nothing to do while he awaited his death except marvel at how it felt to be, once again, trapped in such a miserable predicament. While the looming neck-snapping was bound to be a nasty event, there was one little upswing. One tiny, miniscule, completely-not-worth-it upswing. Near-death experiences carried with them an incredible heightened awareness. All the little things a person never registered in the day to day became as bright and flashy as neon signs as the seconds ticked down to zero.

The Doctor swore he could feel the individual blood cells meandering through the capillaries in his fingertips. And faded wallpaper had surely never looked so interesting. With his eyes less than an inch from the wall, the Doctor could make out the petals in each discolored amaranth rose. His nose was squashed too much for him to properly smell the mildew and age, but he imagined he'd be able to taste it. What the hell? This regeneration had a good sense of taste. Why not use it one last time? He poked his tongue out and let it touch the wall. Disgusting! He was really going to miss those taste buds. And those teeth. And that luscious hair.

It wasn't until he was decrying the coming loss of his feet that the Doctor realized the angel was giving him an unusual amount of time for contemplation. He stopped saying goodbye to his body parts and turned his attention to the angel's game. It hadn't loosened its grip on his neck—he was going to miss that neck; it had character—and it showed no signed of releasing him. It didn't show any signs of finishing the execution, either.

The Doctor waited, counting in his head as he did so. When he reached ten and his vertebrae were still intact, his curiosity got the better of him. He either needed to know why the angel was delaying, or he needed it to kill him and end the suspense.

"I know you can't reply, and me talking is probably going to be the trigger you've been waiting for, but I'd like to know what's going on. Why am I still alive? Not that I'm not grateful! Just curious."

As quickly as he'd been crushed against the wall, the Doctor found himself turned around with his back now to the wall and his eyes meeting something far less pleasant than flowery wallpaper. The weeping angel, its fangs retracted and its face smooth and deceptively serene, was staring straight at him.

The Doctor was not expecting this role reversal. Why was the angel staring at him instead of the other way around? What the angel had done was counter to its biology. It wanted to, at all times, avoid the sight of living things, lest it be quantum-locked in stone. This made no sense, and it made the Doctor uneasy. He'd had enough experience with red-eyed Ood and reprogrammed murderous robots to know that when things started to behave anomalously, the situation was likely to get quite a bit worse.

More than ever, the Doctor wanted to avoid blinking and giving the angel the opportunity to do anything else weird. Sheer desire couldn't overcome biology, though, and the Time Lord eventually had to blink.

In the moment it took the Doctor to blink, the angel leaned forward, touching its forehead to the Doctor's. Upon finding himself in this position, the Doctor yelped and whipped his head back so quickly it smacked off the wall. His cranium had not been designed to be ricocheted like a pinball, and the Doctor inadvertently walloped himself into blinking again.

A fraction of a second later, the Doctor's head was again intimate with the wall. The weeping angel, keen on capturing the Time Lord's head for some reason, seized the Doctor by the throat to restrain him. The Doctor gasped; if the angel tightened its grip any further, he would be unable to breathe at all. He doubted strangulation was what the angel intended for him—it could have crushed his windpipe with ease if it had so desired—but whatever the angel had planned for him and his head would only be exacerbated by hypoxia.

Trying to escape was futile, but the Doctor had never let that stop him before, and wasn't going to let it discourage him now. He kicked at the angel, though its body was so closed to his feet that he couldn't get any force behind his kicks. He jabbed it in the eye with his thumb. The angel's eyes, being sightless stone, did not even water. He tried biting the hand that squeezed his throat, though he couldn't quite reach. That was probably for the best. A broken tooth wasn't something he needed.

As expected, nothing worked and the Doctor was still held securely when the time came for him to blink again. Knowing a wicked surprise was waiting for him on the other side of the blink, the Doctor gave in to the demands of his burning eyes.

The Doctor could be considered an expert on blinking, as he'd been doing it for over a thousand years, and his centuries of wisdom told him something was wrong with this blink. This blink was different from those billions of other blinks. This blink refused to end. The period of darkness when the Doctor closed his eyes should have elapsed in milliseconds. Instead, it came down like a heavy stage curtain and refused to lift, no matter how hard the Doctor tried to open his eyes.

His mind demanded he panic, and the Doctor would have obliged if not for the wise words of a handy guidebook he'd once read that advised against such action. He decided to listen to the book instead of his brain, because his brain wasn't being particularly helpful or sagacious right then. Instead of flailing and crying for his mother, the Doctor took a deep breath and focused on his working senses.

The Doctor had plenty of other senses to utilize, and chose his sense of touch as a starting point. He groped with his hand and felt the angel's body. If the angel was offended by the Doctor's hand, it was tolerant enough not to snap it off at the wrist. The Doctor ran his hand up the angel, eventually finding the angel's arm. Sliding down the arm, the Doctor collided with his own head.

The weeping angel was covering his eyes with its hand. Mystery solved! If the Doctor wasn't so terrified of this revelation, he would have congratulated himself for his brilliant skills of deduction.

With its victim as blind and powerless as a newborn kitten, the weeping angel made its next move. It laid its forehead against the Doctor's again, and this time the Time Lord couldn't escape the contact.

"What—" The Doctor's question died on his lips as the sensation of having his brain sucked out through his face overwhelmed him.

The brilliant—if somewhat chaotic and abnormal—stream of consciousness the Time Lord usually enjoyed was shredded, chewed, and cast into the torrent the weeping angel had created in the Doctor's mind. Random images, memories, and sounds flashed by and the Doctor tried to make sense of them, if there was any sense to be made. Here was River Song in military fatigues. There was the TARDIS. And that was Martha Jones, standing in a dank cellar with her hands on her hips. And then a glowing orb the Doctor realized was a gravity globe. And what was that thing supposed to be? Some sort of…tree? No, not a tree, better than a tree. That was one of the arboreal structures in the _Byzantium_'s oxygen forest.

The Doctor began to notice a pattern. The angel wasn't ripping into his memories for fun or for the great sense of power that came with invading a fellow sentient creature's mind. It had a purpose. It wanted only certain memories, memories, the Doctor understood, that pertained to his previous encounters with the weeping angels.

Those were dangerous memories, and they were going to get him into trouble. If the angel hated him already, he couldn't imagine how badly it would want to dismember him once it learned he'd sent Angel Bob and his comrades into a space/time crack that had erased them from existence.

Dying was one thing, but being torn limb from limb was another. That might play havoc with his regeneration. What if he regenerated like a worm, and all the pieces grew new Doctors? The universe was not ready for that. He had to stop the angel's probing before it, in a fit of rage, created something too unspeakable to fathom.

The Doctor was no stranger to unwanted guests browsing through his mind like a library catalogue. He'd gotten good at repelling them over the years, and focused on creating an impenetrable wall to dam the outward flow of memories. The mental barrier rose and the sucking pressure on the Doctor's brain dropped away.

His memories were no longer being illegally downloaded, but the Doctor doubted the angel would give up without a fight. He waited, prepared to summon further mental defenses if needed.

Nothing happened. The Doctor wasn't sure if the angel had given up—unlikely, considering the first angel he'd had to mentally wrangle had reduced him to a moaning mess on the floor—or if it was scheming. He put his money on the latter.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd get out of my head and leave my brain alone," the Doctor said. Or thought. Or both. It was difficult to tell exactly how he was communicating at the moment. He was so deep inside his head that he was only peripherally aware of his physical body.

The weeping angel was silent, and if not for a dark patch at the edge of his mind, the Doctor might have dared to hope the stone alien had obeyed his request. As long as even the faintest presence of the angel lingered, though, the Doctor could not let down his guard. The angel would exploit the tiniest opportunity, the slightest weakness, and make the Doctor pay dearly for his negligence.

The stalemate got old fast. The angel neither advanced nor retreated, and standing still drove the Doctor insane. He needed to fidget, to move, to have something happen.

If the angel wasn't going to make the first move, the Doctor decided he would. He focused on the angel's dim signal and tried to push it out of his mind. He felt the angel withdraw and had the audacity to hope he'd be able to banish the winged horror without much fuss.

Challenging the angel had the same effect as dropping a box of sweaty nitroglycerin: an explosion. The Doctor was thrown backwards with such a force that, had it been his physical body, the landing would have killed him. As he was no more corporeal than a well-constructed thought, the impact only sent his brain offline for a few seconds.

The Doctor was shocked back to his senses by what felt like a railroad spike being driven into his head. The angel had taken full advantage of the Doctor's addled state in wake of the initial attack, and now it was forcing itself into his head. The pain that accompanied the intrusion was stupendous, but was not the worst part of it. The sensation of being invaded by something that felt like the distillation of all the filth and darkness and evil in the universe was infinitely more terrible.

While the Doctor's mind rebelled against the assault, his body reacted as well. He went rigid, his hands clenched into fists, his arms snapped to his sides so he looked like a soldier standing at attention, and his face contorted into a grimace. As the angel dug deeper, increasingly loud and distraught hisses and gasps escaped the Time Lord.

This was, the Doctor realized, what Sacred Bob and Molly would have felt when the angels stole their voices and memories, had they been alive at the time. They had not been, and they'd been lucky.

Sacred Bob and Molly might have been dead and mercifully ignorant of the desecration, but the Doctor was fully conscious. He had two choices: act as though dead and let the angel do what it wanted to him, or fight it tooth and claw to the bitter end. As unpleasant as the battle would be, the Doctor considered resistance his only legitimate option. Surrender was not a part of his strategy.

Biting back the immense pain and pressure that speared his mind, the Doctor erected the mental version of the Great Wall of China. The angel hit the blockade and the Doctor felt his defenses shudder like a building under artillery bombardment. The Time Lord considered his situation and decided to gamble everything he had right there and then. He shored up the wall with every last ounce of willpower he could muster. If the angel still found a way through, the Doctor would be devastated. If the barrier held, the angel would bang around harmlessly like a fly buzzing into a window until it was forced to withdraw.

The angel struck at the barrier and the structure shook but held firm. Enraged by the impediment, the weeping angel lashed out again. The Doctor's mental defenses rattled. Instead of pulling back, the angel kept at it, throwing the full force of its mind against the Doctor's.

Almost imperceptivity the Doctor's barrier slid backwards. The Time Lord's hearts quailed. He had nothing else to throw at the angel; if it did not flag but kept pushing, it would win the battle of the minds.

Building momentum as the Doctor weakened under the strain of supporting his immense wall, the angel forced the Doctor back farther and farther. The Doctor dug in his heels and pressed forward with all his might. The angel's advance slowed momentarily before it shrugged off the Doctor's pitiful attempt and regained its speed.

He could not keep this up. It was like trying to turn back the ocean. Even the best-constructed seawalls would, when faced with a large enough wave, crumble to the superior force.

Maybe he should cut his losses and run. If he could preserve the core of his mind, wall that off and protect it, he could survive. Like the possum, he could play dead while the angel ravaged his higher functions and then emerge from the wreckage once the angel was content with the destruction. What his mental landscape would look like, what memories he'd retain and what emotions he'd still have, he couldn't begin to guess. His intuition told him not to expect very much.

Just when the Doctor was about to accept the necessity of the mental and emotional amputation, the angel stopped dead in its tracks. It withdrew from the wall and turned around. With a definite intent and purpose, it headed straight for…something. Something that was left unprotected and outside the scope of the Doctor's defenses.

"No, no! Leave that alone! Don't touch it!" the Doctor shouted. Unknowingly, he shouted these words aloud, too.

The angel responded in a voice it shouldn't have had. It was the Doctor's voice, but corrupted, as though recorded on a faulty cassette and played through bad speakers.

The Doctor blanched at the sound of his voice—though with a decidedly different tone and syntax—coming from the angel. He hated having his voice stolen by every nasty, mute psychopath the universe threw his way. Really, wasn't the Midnight entity enough? What gave the weeping angels the right to do the same thing to him? So they'd evolved in a time when the universe was young, quiet, and the number of planets with any type of atmosphere to allow for sound travel was next to nil. That didn't give them the right to adapt by pillaging the heads of innocent soldiers, women, and Time Lords.

"Shut up! Shut up and get out!" the Doctor said.

"Yes, Doctor," the angel replied. It withdrew slowly, trying to tease the Doctor from behind his silly wall. The Doctor hated the idea of the angel escaping with its prize but if he came charging out from behind his defenses, the angel would snap him in half.

"Don't go anywhere with my voice! Leave it here. Oi! That's stolen property!"

The angel was unaffected by the Doctor's charge of larceny. Heedless of the Time Lord's shouts, the angel made off with its ill-gotten goods at a speed no other thief in the universe could match. It was out of the Doctor's mind in the blink of an eye.

As soon as he was sure the angel was gone, the Doctor threw down his barriers and returned to consciousness. He needed to know what the angel had planned for his voice, and he needed to stop it.

The Doctor opened his eyes. He saw familiar blackness, which meant the angel hadn't taken its hand off his eyes. The pressure around his throat was still there, too.

"Amelia Pond, come here, please."

So that was why the angel had wanted his voice, and why it let him live. The lonely assassin wasn't interested in merely killing the Doctor. It had seen the crimes he'd committed against the weeping angel species, and it had a punishment worse than death in mind for him.

The Doctor knew the angel expected its plan to leave its victim terrified, thrashing in its grip and begging it to reconsider. Shame it wasn't going to work that way. The angel had made a grave mistake, bringing the Doctor's friends into it. If there was anything stupider than putting him in a trap, it was dropping his friends in there with him.

* * *

TBC


	33. What Has to Be Done

I am infinitely sorry for the wait. Please accept my humblest, most groveling apologies.

And thanks so much for the reviews.

* * *

The angel had a good plan, the Doctor had to admit. It was simple, lacked any of the grandiosity or moving parts schemers like the Master had always preferred, and it was as cruel as it was efficient. The only flaw the Doctor could see was that it would take time. The Ponds, no matter how desperate they were to answer the angel's fatal call, couldn't levitate through the floor. They'd have to find a way around the chasm in the stairs. The Doctor had no doubt they'd bodge something—no force in the universe, including death, could keep the Ponds down for long—but he was sure he'd be quicker on the draw. By the times the Ponds unwittingly delivered themselves into the angel's trap, the Doctor expected to have the trap disarmed.

First things first, he needed his voice back. His words were one of the most powerful weapons in the universe, and without them he was vulnerable. If he needed proof of the power of his voice—and he didn't—he had only to look at the angel. Armed with only its misappropriated voice, the angel had already tricked the Ponds and put them in terrible danger.

The Doctor considered how he could reclaim his voice. There was nothing, he was sure, physically wrong with him. He still had all the parts he needed to speak. His tongue, larynx, teeth, frontal lobe, none of the physical structures had been damaged. The Doctor remembered how to form speech, how to manipulate his tongue and press it against his teeth and alveolar ridge, and how to shape his lips for the desired sound. Memory wasn't the problem. _Nothing_ should have been the problem, but something was still keeping him mute.

The mysterious barrier had to be psychological. Maybe it was like something akin to stage fright. A person uncomfortable speaking in front of a crowd could freeze up out of fear, not because anything had gone wrong with him. In the Doctor's case, it wasn't fear that stopped his words, but some other psychological block.

The Doctor ruminated on his problem. In the past, he'd seen the weeping angels freeze a person's body. Both Amy and George had been hypnotized into believing they were turning to stone and unable to move. Neither of them had, of course, really been solidifying, but they'd believed their hijacked brains.

The angel copied my voice, but did not steal it. I can still speak, the Doctor thought. He concentrated on that thought, repeating it like a mantra. I can still speak. I _can_ still speak.

The Doctor opened his mouth, repeated his mental chant, and produced absolutely nothing. Not so much as a peep.

Alright, he couldn't break the psychological block by thinking around it. He'd have to try something else, something more drastic.

Pain. That was the key. Not pain by itself, so much, but the instinctive nature to react to it. The Doctor had bitten Amy and that had broken her out of her trance. Kicking George in the shin had accomplished the same result. All he had to do was hurt himself so badly his instinctive and overwhelming response was to whimper or cry or scream himself hoarse.

This was not going to be fun. He had a ridiculously high pain tolerance. Also, he had very little on hand he could use against himself. It wasn't like he had a whole torture chamber to choose diabolical instruments from. He was pinned against a wall, couldn't even see what was around him, and couldn't exactly ask the weeping angel to punch him in the gut until he couldn't take it anymore.

For now, he was stumped.

* * *

While the Doctor thought of ways to make himself cry, Amy and Rory desperately threw ideas at each other.

"But we can't just leave these angels. What if that other one comes back and sets them free?" Rory asked.

"The Doctor must have found the other angel. He wouldn't have called us if he didn't," Amy replied.

"How are we even supposed to get to the Doctor? Half the staircase is gone."

"We'll, I don't know, build a bridge."

"A bridge?"

"This is a basement, and basements are always full of stuff. Help me look."

"But the angels…"

"Rory, I promise the angels won't go anywhere."

Amy stepped out of the circle of light and disappeared from view. Rory looked from the sonic screwdriver to the quartet of angels to the darkness that hid his wife. With a moan he turned the sonic away from the angels and cast its light on Amy. The angels stayed in their stone circle and Rory felt a bit better about abandoning his duty.

"What are we looking for?" Rory asked as he shined the sonic around like a torch.

"Boards, rope, anything we can use to get across that hole."

Rory personally thought building and crossing unstable bridges should be left to the experts, like Indiana Jones and MacGyver, but he wasn't going to tell Amy that. If she wanted to make a bridge out of basement crap, then by God, Rory Williams would help her. Going along with plans that could possibly break both their necks was part of his sacred husband duties.

The screwdriver illuminated a short pile of lumber that had been entombed beneath decades of dust. Rory pulled one of the boards from the stack and created a miniature dustbowl in the process. Coughing, he stepped away from the dust cloud and examined the board. It looked long enough to bridge the gap, but it also looked older than he was.

Rory passed the sonic screwdriver off to Amy. He needed both hands to test the lumber's strength. Gripping the board tightly, Rory brought it down over his knee. The board held firm but it felt like his patella cracked in two.

"Might work," Rory said as he clutched his knee and tried to pretend it didn't hurt.

Amy and Rory divvied up the boards, with Rory taking a majority and Amy carting what she could manage. Since she now held the sonic screwdriver, Amy led the way through the darkness and back to the stairs.

Sally, Larry, and George were forced to get creative again. They had to keep at least two sets of eyes on the angel at the bottom of the stairs, and still somehow leave enough room on the narrow stairwell for Amy and Rory to build their bridge and then cross it. Since George was rubbish at staring, he decided he'd be more useful getting out of the way and freeing up some space. George's absence gave the Ponds a little more room to work.

The boards were not all of uniform length, and the shorter ones couldn't go the distance. Rory moved the too-short boards out of the way and laid them next to the weeping angel. He gathered up the boards that were long enough and he and Amy began bridge-building.

Amy crouched at the edge of the hole on the last stable step and Rory handed her lumber. Board by board the bridge came into being. By the time they ran out of boards, the Ponds had covered all but the peripheral edges of the hole with wood of questionable strength.

"That looks twice as stable as I thought it would," Rory said.

Amy and Rory exchanged high-fives. For their first architectural endeavor, the bridge wasn't an outright, one-way ticket to death.

"I think I should go first," Rory said. "I'm heavier."

As though testing the water temperature in a swimming pool, Rory tentatively lowered one foot onto the bridge. When the lumber initially held, he leaned forward, putting more weight onto the foot. His foot didn't plunge through the wood so he shuffled his other foot forward. His full weight was now on the bridge, and everything was going better than expected.

"Right, moving forward. Here I go."

Moving like a man crossing thin ice, Rory inched across the bridge. He took a step and the board beneath him cracked alarmingly. Rory withdrew his foot and placed it on an adjacent board that was more willing to hold him.

A trip that would have taken ten seconds had the stairs not been knocked from existence took five creeping minutes per Pond. Amy's heart-attack-inducing moment came when the board she was standing one—which had been just long enough to span the hole—slipped out from underfoot and slid down the stairs like a runaway ski. She would have followed the board if Rory hadn't been close enough to grab her and pull her to safety.

"I am never doing anything like that ever again!" Amy said.

"Knowing the Doctor, we'll be doing it again next week," Rory replied.

"Only if he's still alive next week. I might kill him for getting us into this."

Amy couldn't kill the Doctor, or shout at him, or threaten to remove all the sugar from his diet unless she found him alive. Sally and Larry pressed themselves against the wall so Amy and Rory could squeeze past and begin their search for the Doctor.

"Find him," Sally said.

"And get him back here to do something about that thing." Larry pointed down the stairs to the angel.

Amy promised to find the Doctor, help him out of whatever mess he'd undoubtedly gotten himself into, and return as quickly as possible.

"I'll hold you to that 'as quickly as possible' bit," George said. Then, lowering his voice so Sally and Larry wouldn't be privy, he added, "I heard the Doctor call your name, and I don't like it."

"He wouldn't have done it if there was any danger. He must have cornered the angel and now he needs us to come and help him."

"Why not call me or Sally or that other bloke? Larry, is that his name? We were already on this floor; it would have been easier. I think something's happened to him," George insisted.

"Come on, he's the Doctor. Master of time and space, thousand-year-old super genius, champion of the bowties and whatever else he's claimed to be. He probably called me because I was the only person he traveled with for so long. If he'd thought about it for a second, I'm sure he would have asked for one of you, instead," Amy said.

"He's had seconds. By now he's had minutes. And he hasn't said anything else. Just one sentence. And the _way_ he said it…"

"It was his voice! Wasn't it, Rory?"

"Absolutely," Rory said.

"I'm not saying it wasn't his voice. I'm saying maybe he wasn't the one using it."

"Huh?" Rory said. "But who else could have been using it?"

"The an-"

Amy stuck her finger in George's face, silencing him. "Don't you say it! Don't even think it! The Doctor is fine."

George wanted to protest, wanted to shout about how wrong it was, how Molly had sounded the same way—too calm, flat when she should have been panicked and breathless—but the look on Amy's face shut him up. He knew the look. He had no doubt been wearing it when the Doctor had told him Molly had been murdered by the angel. It was a look that guaranteed no cooperation, only denial. Nothing except inescapable proof, like the Doctor's dead body, would be enough to convince Amy of the truth.

"I'm sorry. Please, prove me wrong. I'm begging you to prove me wrong," George said.

"Oh, we will," Amy responded. With fire in her eyes she stormed past George.

George sighed and watched the Ponds go. Once they turned down a hall and vanished from sight, he returned to the top of the stairs.

"What was that about?" Sally asked. Her ears had caught bits and pieces—mainly Amy's pieces—and even though she couldn't turn around to look at George, she suspected he wasn't happy.

"Nothing. Paranoia. I hope."

* * *

He could slap himself. Slaps hurt. He'd been slapped enough by Donna (and a plethora of other women, men, and creatures of debatable gender) to know that.

No, that wouldn't work. Even when Donna had slapped him hard enough to leave a clear handprint, she'd never hurt him enough to make him gasp or cry. Besides, he'd know the slap was coming and he'd be prepared for the sting. He needed a more sudden, more painful shock.

What if he bit himself? He did have spaceman teeth and biting Amy had been enough to snap her out of the angel's hold.

Biting would be more painful than slapping, but the Doctor had to discard it, as well. He had broad experience with bite-y aliens and while some had hurt enough to make him scream, those bites had been inflicted by creatures that had teeth as long and sharp as steak knives. His own canines were inadequate.

Maybe he wasn't cut out for this. The Doctor was neither a sadist nor a masochist, neither a fan of pain being inflicted upon him, nor of inflicting pain on others. He did not sit in his TARDIS, hunched over like some evil fairytale troll, plotting ways to torture his enemies or to torture himself. He hated the idea of anyone—even those who might deserve it—suffering.

Then he needed to stop thinking like Mr. Nice Doctor and start thinking like any of the myriad foes that had broken his bones, stomped his guts, and threatened his life. That list of enemies could stretch around the Earth a few times. He only needed to find the right one, the one alien that could make the Doctor writhe without having to employ anything extemporaneous.

Sontarans. Yes, the Doctor figured, he had to think like a Sontaran. A Sontaran who had a taciturn prisoner he needed to squeeze information from.

The Doctor punched himself in the stomach. His breath left him with a wheeze. If the angel hadn't been holding his throat, he would have doubled over.

Close, the Doctor thought, close but not quite. He needed to push his nerves just a tad further.

If his stomach wasn't vulnerable enough, the Doctor knew what he had to punch next. He grimaced at the thought of it. Oh well. It was only going to be worse the longer he waited.

The Doctor took a deep breath and punched himself in the crotch.

The angel's mental block never stood a chance.

* * *

TBC


	34. Found and Lost

Ever been in the middle of a chapter, and everything was going swimmingly, and then all of a sudden, _poof_! Nothing. Nada. Forsaken by the muse. Inspiration has left the building.

If not, consider yourself lucky. Even if you do know the feeling, I'm still sorry. I know you've been waiting ages for this chapter, and I'm sorry. Sorry, sorry, oh, sorry!

Thanks for the reviews and the patience. Sorry for the absurd wait.

* * *

The Doctor had been kind enough to leave a trail, albeit a back-tracking, confusing one, for the Ponds to follow. They traced his footsteps in the dust down hallways and into rooms, only to find the Doctor had turned around upon finding nothing of interest. More than once they lost the trail on broad swatches of carpet that were devoid of dust. Every time they had to reestablish the trail, Amy grew more frustrated. They didn't have time for dead ends and playing find-the-footprint!

"I wish he'd say something. Do you think we should call him, maybe?" Rory asked.

"If he had something important to say, he'd say it. He probably can't risk giving away his position," Amy responded.

Rory was beginning to get the same feeling George had gotten: the feeling that something was wrong with the whole situation. He knew next to nothing about the angels and their abilities, but he couldn't explain the misgivings away as a product of his ignorance. It wasn't paranoia or primitive and baseless fear of the unknown. Something was off, he knew it, and Amy knew it, too, though she refused to admit it.

"What did George mean when he said the angel might have taken the Doctor's voice?"

"Nothing."

"Amy, if it's something that could kill me, don't you think I should know about it? I'm good at dying, and I don't like it very much, so any help would be appreciated."

"It's _nothing_, Rory. Forget it. You're not going to die, and neither is anyone else."

Rory knew pressing the subject further would only earn him one of Amy's withering glares. He reluctantly shut his mouth and tried to tamp down the increasingly dark feelings that were creeping into him. He of course met with no success. If anything, the ominous feelings rose higher and clouded his mind with blacker shadows and more foreboding thoughts.

* * *

Not far from where the Ponds were deciphering footsteps in decades of dust, the Doctor was trying not to cry. Rassilon, that had hurt! Why had he ever done anything so stupid?

The Doctor moaned.

Oh, right, that was why. To reclaim his voice, to break it free from the shackles the angel had wrapped around it, and to prove himself manly enough to stand up to the harshest Sontaran interrogation while he was at it. Mission accomplished on all fronts.

Now that he had freed his most dangerous weapon, he needed only to wait for the opportune time to fire it. Shouting at the angel and insulting its mother would accomplish nothing, and not only because the angel didn't have a proper mother. Screaming mindlessly for the Ponds also wasn't a particularly good idea. They would come running, and the angel would either kill them or disappear down the hole and into the dark basement long before they arrived. There would be a time to call the Ponds, but it hadn't arrived.

Until that time came, the Doctor had to be patient. Patient, but alert and ready. The Ponds would be smart enough to try for stealth, but Wester Drumlins would betray their approach to the angel just as it had betrayed the Doctor's. If the Time Lord wanted to save his friends, he needed to hear them coming before the angel did. That required complete silence and concentration on his part.

By covering his eyes, the angel had inadvertently done the Doctor a favor. He had no sense of sight, so his other senses tried to compensate. His hearing might never be as sharp as that of an owl, but his ears were more fine-tuned to every creak of the ancient house than they would have been if he could see.

The Doctor focused his almost-but-not-quite-owlish ears on picking up the faintest scrap of voice or the creaking of a floorboard protesting against a foot. He heard nothing but the internal sounds his body made: his slow, steady breath, the double drumbeat of his hearts, and the gurgle of his guts that reminded him he should have eaten a decent meal that morning, as it was a terrible shame to die on an empty stomach. The angel's body, it seemed, made none of these organic noises. There was no soft cycle of inhalations and exhalations, no angry, rumbling empty stomach, not even the electronic buzz Cybermen's circuits gave off. The angel might have been the quietest thing in the universe.

"I have seen into your mind, and I know you are planning to stop me."

So much for the quietest thing in the universe. The Doctor should have known the angel wouldn't be able to resist taunting him, especially since it had such a brilliant voice with which to do the taunting.

"I know all about you, Doctor. I know what you did to my kind. I saw you condemn them to worse than death. To non-existence and to starvation."

The angel was trying to distract him, provoke him, break his concentration. He couldn't let it. He had to block out its insidious voice and ignore its jabs. He had better things to do than defend his actions to a stupid talking block of rock.

"Your friends are coming to save you, and I think it's only fair that I invite friends of my own to meet them. My friends, I'm sure, will be eager to make your acquaintance, Doctor. You were responsible for locking them in stone, after all."

Oh, bugger. The four angels in the basement would _not_ be happy to see him. And he wouldn't exactly be thrilled to see them either, nasty, sneaky things that they were, but that was beside the point. The stony quartet would not be in a forgiving mood should they gain their freedom, and the Doctor had no plan for how to deal with five free angels. His little group's superior numbers would suddenly not be so superior anymore, and their overall chances for survival would plummet to somewhere close to zero.

He needed to keep the number of mobile angels at one, and to do that he needed to think fast. Any moment now the angel with its talons around his throat would make its move and dive into the basement to liberate its comrades. The Doctor had to delay it long enough for the Ponds to reach him.

"I wish I could say I was sorry about that, but I'd be lying," the Doctor said.

Though he couldn't see the angel's face, the Doctor knew he'd struck a nerve, as the hand at his throat tightened perceptibly. Breathing became a struggle, but the Doctor knew he couldn't let a little thing like strangulation stop him. He had to push the angel until it forgot all about rescuing its friends.

"Since you've been spelunking in my head, you know I was a different Doctor when I met your friends. I…he…pronoun…was sorry about _everything_. Step on a dandelion, three hours of brooding. Burn the pancakes, don't expect the tears to stop for a week. All that and he still didn't regret playing Medusa with your mates."

A sharp spike of pain in the side of his neck made the Doctor wince. The angel was, as expected, not happy with what it was hearing. In retaliation it had crooked one finger and dug the stony claw into the Doctor's flesh hard enough to draw blood.

Ignoring the trickle of blood that ran down his neck, the Doctor brazenly continued. If the four angels in the basement were a sore spot, the last stand of Angel Bob and his merry band of miscreants would be a pulsating, ugly wound on the weeping angel's psyche. Poking at said wound would enrage the angel to the point, the Doctor hoped, where it would decide to hurt and kill him all by itself.

"And don't even get me started on Angel Bob. Alright, fine, I will. But only because you insisted. Angel Bob was the absolute worst rock monster I've ever had the displeasure to meet, and that's saying something. I've met Eldrad, last of the Kastrians. Nearly blew up a nuclear power plant, that one did. Still nowhere near as bad as Bob."

Earlier than he'd hoped, the Doctor found his air supply cut off. With his respiratory bypass system, oxygen deprivation wouldn't be an immediate concern; he'd have a few minutes before hypoxia started to affect him. Unfortunately, the Time Lords hadn't evolved a survival mechanism that allowed them to talk while they were being choked. It would be difficult, unless the angel understood semaphore or Morse code, to finish the tale of Angel Bob and keep the weeping angel sidetracked with rage.

Not twenty seconds after he was forcefully muted, and long before he could formulate a new strategy, the Doctor finally heard confirmation the Ponds were coming his way. Unfortunately, the Ponds' chosen sound was so distinct and obvious there was no way the angel could mistake it for anything innocuous. Instead of footsteps or a creaking floorboard, the sound was the buzzing of the sonic screwdriver coming from right down the hall.

The Doctor, had his windpipe not been pinched shut, would have sighed with exasperation. He knew exactly which door had the Ponds stymied, and he knew, for a plethora of reasons, that they were wasting their time with the screwdriver. For starters, the door wasn't actually locked; its knob was just old and stubborn and in need of a kick. Even if the door had been locked, the Doctor could tell by the screwdriver's pitch that it was on the wrong setting for picking locks. The only way that setting would ever open a door would be if it spontaneously caused the screws to shoot from the hinges like corks from bottles of champagne, and the chances of that weren't favorable. No, the Doctor figured, Amy and Rory would have better luck gnawing through the door with their teeth.

Whichever Pond was abusing the sonic screwdriver finally decided nothing was going to happen and the high-pitched hum died. That moment of wisdom arrived a bit too late to keep the Ponds from revealing both their exact location and their ineptitude with the Doctor's tools to the weeping angel. While the Doctor bemoaned his companions' great human capacity for stupidity, the angel was assured of its victory. Hunting down and extinguishing the Doctor's friends would hardly be considered sport.

Sport or not, the time had come to make the Doctor suffer for his crimes. Careful to keep the Time Lord's eyes covered, the angel took a step back and brought the Doctor away from the wall. Given freer range of movement, the Doctor began to struggle. He lashed out furiously with his hands and feet, landing solid blows that would have dissuaded a softer creature. The angel, being built of sterner stuff, couldn't be bothered to do so much as flinch.

Writhing and kicking exhausted the Doctor's limited supply of oxygen, and he had no choice but to stop when he noticed his limbs suddenly felt as heavy as stone. Though he knew it would be as fruitless a gesture as striking the angel had been, the Doctor opened his mouth and tried desperately to inhale. Nothing, not so much as a molecule of oxygen, managed to sneak into the Time Lord's lungs.

The moment the Doctor went limp in its grasp, the angel moved with speed that made it all but invisible to the naked eye. The combination of inhuman acceleration and oxygen deprivation made the Doctor's head spin.

They came to a stop a moment later. The Doctor couldn't tell if they'd traveled a foot or halfway across the universe. His sense of distance had jumped ship and the rest of his senses had followed like lemmings. In their place was the sensation of floating on a warm, fluffy cloud. The core of rationality that remained functioning in his oxygen-starved mind screamed that no matter how peaceful and benevolent the sensation seemed, it was nothing more than a harbinger of approaching brain damage. If the Doctor didn't do _something_ soon, his neurons would die en masse.

That was terrible, all those brain cells leaving behind widows and children, but for all its bluster, the rational core couldn't think of a way to stem the coming extinction. It was only capable of bleating "something" over and over again. Well that was useful, wasn't it? Why had the bloody siren even raised the alarm if there was nothing to be done about the problem? If the Doctor was going to asphyxiate in the talons of the universe's oldest psychopath, he wanted to do it without his survival instinct shrieking away like an idiot child.

And it looked like he was going to get his wish. The alarm bells, either chastised or too devoid of oxygen to protest any longer, fell silent. The Doctor relaxed. That was much better. Now he could float on his wooly cloud, forget all his troubles, and slip away.

He slipped, fell for a moment, and then did a spectacular belly flop.

The Doctor sucked in a great, gasping breath. Along with life-giving air, he inhaled a cloud of dust that filled his mouth and throat. The Time Lord gasped a second time before descending into a spasm of coughing.

He had not survived being throttled by a weeping angel just to choke and die on a handful of dust. The Doctor rolled onto his back and struck himself in the chest. A few quick thumps to the sternum and the coughing fit eased to the point the Doctor was no longer worried he was going expel his lungs. He lay flat for a moment longer before rising up onto his elbows. The Doctor turned his head and spat, rubbed his nose, and spat again. His mouth tasted like he'd been licking a coal miner's boots. Blegh! The Doctor spat a third time.

That was all the spitting the Doctor allowed himself to do. He had more important things to worry about than a bad taste in his mouth. He had to find out where he was, where the angel was, and if there was anything he could do to stop it from destroying the solar system.

The Doctor's first theory was that the angel had finished him off and the afterlife was a dark, filthy mine tunnel. Considering the number of species that theorized the dead, especially the dead that killed their entire species, spent the rest of eternity belowground, that wasn't completely unfounded conjecture.

The Doctor was not ready to declare himself a resident of Tartarus until he eliminated any other explanations. He sat up and looked around. Wherever he was, it was dark. The only break in the monotony of blackness was a beam of light that descended from the ceiling and created a rough circle of brightness on the floor. The Doctor squinted at the one source of brightness. As he watched, two silhouettes appeared.

"Doctor, are you down there? Doctor?"

"He must be. There aren't any footprints leading out from this room. Doctor!"

Amy and Rory! The Doctor opened his mouth to call out to them. He produced a little squeak that could have been outdone by a hamster with laryngitis. That was not going to alert them of anything.

The Doctor massaged his throat and tried again. This time what came out was audible…if one happened to be listening with a long-range parabolic microphone.

Damn it! This was not going to work. The Doctor would have to make himself known in a visual way. He had to get to that spotlight and he had to do it before the Ponds gave up and went elsewhere.

The Doctor staggered to his feet. His legs felt like those of a sailor who had taken his first step on land after months at sea. The Time Lord wasn't surprised; he had, after all, been strangled to the precipice of death and some weakness—and voice-loss—was to be expected.

Jellied legs or no jellied legs, he had to get to the Ponds. The Doctor took a step towards the light and then froze as solidly as a weeping angel that had been seen. There were now _three_ shadows reflected on the floor.

And the third shadow had wings.

* * *

TBC

For anyone unfamiliar Eldrad was a Fourth Doctor era villain who was made of silicon rock.


	35. Ceiling Rory

Thanks for the reviews, everyone, and as usual, sorry for the wait.

* * *

Panic turned the Doctor's mind into a lunatic asylum full of jabbering voices. There was a weeping angel directly behind his Ponds, he could only see the monster's shadow, which apparently did not count, and if someone didn't do something soon, everyone was going to be dead.

The Doctor's feet were apparently in the same completely insane state as his brain, because they, without receiving any conscious orders from the Doctor's mind, compelled him to run like a drunken giraffe. He knew there was no way he could reach the hole before the angel murdered his Ponds, but he decided to forget that inconvenient fact just then. It was the same compulsion that made people run after cars that had just driven off with their loved ones unwillingly aboard, though they never, in the long history of movie chases, ever caught the kidnapper's car.

The Doctor had covered half the distance between himself and the light when something plowed into him and sent his sprawling. He rolled several times before coming to a stop in a cloud of dust. He lay there, stunned for a moment before coming to his senses. With effort and without the full use of his right arm, he managed to sit up.

Whatever had collided with him felt as though it had nearly broken his humerus. Under normal circumstances, that would have been a perfectly good excuse to call for a time-out and take a moment to ensure there were no bone shards protruding. There was no time for that now, though. Any potential compound fractures would have to wait.

Trying to move his aching right arm as little as possible, the Doctor staggered to his feet. He looked ahead and up at the hole in the ceiling. To his infinite relief, the three shadows were still present and, as he watched, one of the non-winged ones shifted. That meant his Ponds were alive and had somehow managed to get the angel in their sight before it got them in its claws.

The Time Lord got his feet moving, though this time they didn't have quite so much manic energy. Being knocked senseless had taken some of the spirit out of him, and seeing that his Ponds had some sort of grasp on their situation allowed him to think rationally again. He realized he had to be alert and more cautious than ever, because there was at least one mobile angel down here with him. If he was being honest about his situation, in all likelihood four angels were hunting him. A damaged arm would be the least of his worries if they decided to finish him instead of knock him around a bit.

As terrifying as it was to be helpless while killers from the dawn of the universe pecked at you, there was nothing the Doctor could do except keep on keeping on. He had no tricks up his sleeves for freezing the four angels, and it was so dark in the basement an angel would be within striking distance before he spotted it. Whatever was going to happen would happen. His only option was to head for the light and alert the Ponds of his presence.

"Amy, did you just hear a noise down there? Like something hitting the floor, maybe?" Rory asked.

"Forget about noises and worry about the angel! And whatever you do, don't blink," Amy replied.

"But what if it was the Doctor?"

"He'd tell you the same thing I'm telling you. No matter what made the noise I didn't hear, it isn't as important as making sure we don't die."

The Doctor was now close enough to hear the Ponds' conversation. Just a bit farther and he would be able to stare up into the hole, get the angel in his sights, and then alert the Ponds without any risk of startling them into blinking simultaneously. Once they were united, and hopefully close enough to hear him even with his puny little squeak of a voice, then they could think of a plan to rescue the Doctor from the dingy hole he was trapped in.

Perhaps ten steps from his goal, and just as he was beginning to hope for the best, the Doctor felt merciless talons slash into his back. The stone claws shredded the Doctor's tweed jacket as though it was made of wet paper, ripped through his shirt, and opened five blazing lines of agony that started at his shoulder and ran diagonally downward. The Doctor made a strangled wheeze that would have been a scream if his throat had been in a more cooperative mood.

His momentum carried him the final few steps and he collapsed in the circle of light he'd been trying so hard to reach. The Doctor panted raggedly, each breath mushrooming a little cloud of dust from the floor. He hadn't met such nasty claws since the last time he'd wound up in the late Cretaceous and a crafty little pack of raptors had tried to recruit him for the coming mass extinction.

"I know _that_ wasn't my imagination."

"I heard it, too. And it sounded close."

"Like it was right down there. In the hole."

"One of us should look, and one of us should watch the angel. You blink too much, so I'll keep an eye on the angel."

"Right. Whenever you're ready."

"Okay, go."

The division of labor situated, Amy stared at the angel and Rory peered down into the basement. The Doctor was impossible to miss, sprawled out on the floor with his arms stretched out in front of him. The bright splashes of blood on the Doctor's jacket were even more eye-catching.

"Oh my God, Amy, it's the Doctor! And he's hurt!"

"_What_?"

"Doctor, can you hear me? Doctor? If you're alive, move. I think that was movement. Doctor, if that was movement, do it again. Okay, yeah, definitely movement. He's alive."

The Doctor groaned and lifted his head. He saw Rory looking down on him like a human version of Ceiling Cat. Despite the pain associated with the motion, the Doctor propped himself up on his elbows and offered Rory a brief wave.

"Hello, Mr. Pond!" the Doctor said.

"I didn't quite catch that," Rory replied.

The Doctor coughed and rubbed at his throat. His voice, it seemed, was still so traumatized by the whole strangling experience that it remained in hiding. That was going to make securing rescue all the more difficult.

Lying in the dirt like a mole cricket wasn't going to get him out of danger, either. He needed to get on his feet, which would hopefully put his mouth close enough to Rory's ears to allow for some information to pass between them. The only thing stopping him from springing to his feet was the already immense pain that burned through his back and shoulder. Any movement would aggravate his injuries and the Doctor was not looking forward to testing the limits of his pain tolerance just then.

No matter how badly it was going to hurt—spoilers, unbelievably badly—the Doctor had to bite the bullet and drag himself off the floor. Since he had no bullet to bite, he had to resort to clenching his jaws and thinking happy thoughts. The Doctor sucked a deep breath in through his teeth and forced himself up onto his hands and knees. His happy thoughts exploded and rained down in tragic bits.

"You're almost there, Doctor. You can… Hold on a second, Amy needs to blink."

The Doctor joined Amy in taking a momentary respite. He gathered up the nerve and willpower that had fled after the initial burst of pain in preparation of the second half of the ordeal. The Time Lord couldn't be sure, but he doubted standing would alleviate the feeling that someone had doused his back in petrol and then struck a match.

The moment Rory announced that Amy was fine, at least for the next thirty seconds, the Doctor struggled off his hands and knees and back into a bipedal position. As badly as it hurt to move so quickly, at least the worst of it was over now. If he'd tried to stand in stages, the cumulative pain of each small step would have added up and surpassed one giant increase.

"Can you hear me now?" the Doctor asked.

Rory shook his head but was then struck with an idea. He lay down on his belly and leaned down over the hole. The Doctor wasn't thrilled with the arrangement—knowing Rory, he'd somehow end up falling into the hole and landing on his head—but couldn't exactly tell Rory off for making bad choices.

"You're going to fall in," the Doctor said.

This time Rory nodded excitedly. "I heard you! And no, I won't."

The Doctor had no desire to argue. He did, however, have a desire to get out of the cellar before he was assaulted again. The only reason the weeping angel or angels weren't tearing him to ribbons was Rory's protective gaze.

"How'd you get down there, anyway? Did you not see the hole? And what happened to your voice?" Rory asked. "And where's that angel you were hunting? Did you find it?"

Rory would have continued to blitz the Doctor with questions if the Time Lord hadn't pressed a finger to his own lips. Rory got the message and gave the Doctor time to answer.

"Yes, I found the angel. Or it found me. Either way, it nicked my voice. But then I got it back by punching myself. It was a psychological block I had to break with pain. Leave it at that. Then I lost my voice a second time when the angel strangled me to the brink of death. Not as bad as it sounds, actually. The last minute was serene. When I came to my senses, I was in the basement. I saw your shadows, tried to reach you, and did not run the gauntlet unscathed. But I'm still alive, and I'd like to stay that way. So get me out of here," the Doctor said.

Rory's mouth dropped open and he gaped at the Doctor. He knew danger stalked the Doctor like an obsessive ex-girlfriend, but there was no way the Doctor had managed to get himself in that much trouble in half an hour. Was there? Because if there was, the universe was a much scarier and more malignant place than Rory cared to imagine.

"My luck can honestly be that bad. But if we don't think of something soon, it's going to get _so_ much worse. I do not want to die down here!" the Doctor said.

Rory closed his mouth and gave the Doctor a curt nod. "I understand."

"What do you understand? Rory, what's happened to the Doctor?" Amy asked.

"An angel's scratched him up a bit, but he's on his feet and everything. He needs a way out of the basement, though," Rory reported.

"Can't you just, I don't know, reach down there and grab his hand?" Amy suggested.

"It's too far; I couldn't reach, even if he jumped."

"I— I need to blink. Watch the angel and then we'll think of something."

Rory looked at the angel and suppressed a shudder. Selfish or not, he was glad Amy was the one with the resilient eyelids. Watching the stone monster even for a few seconds made Rory's skin crawl.

"We need some sort of rope. Do you suppose shoelaces would work?" Amy said.

"Too thin. Even if they held, they'd cut into your hands," Rory replied.

"Then what about… Your belt! Take it off."

"What? Now? Can't this wait? I mean—"

Amy groaned. "Not like that."

"Of course not like that! Especially not with that _thing_ standing there. That would be weird. I'll just take off my belt, then, and use it to rescue the Doctor. Right." Rory blushed as brightly as a ripe strawberry as he fumbled to undo his belt without losing his trousers in the process.

As though he were fishing, Rory dropped one end of the belt into the hole. The Doctor found he had precious little to hold onto—why couldn't Amy have married someone with more of a waist?—and clutched the belt with both hands. The deep slashes across his back throbbed like an impacted tooth as he moved.

"Ready?" Rory asked.

Unless they intended to wait days for his injuries to heal, there was no use in postponing and prolonging the misery. The Doctor held on for dear life as Rory began to haul him up. As soon as the stress on his shoulders increased, the intensity of the pain ratcheted up. The Doctor bit his lip and tried to force his mind to focus on something asides from the growing agony. His obstinate brain refused to let him change subjects and instead dwelled with grim intensity on the increasingly shrill signals the Doctor's nerves were sending.

Rory did not possess the lifting power of a construction crane, and pulling the Doctor from the basement was tedious and difficult work. By the time Rory actually managed to get the Time Lord's feet off the ground, sweat was beginning to bead his forehead. Rory had no spare hand with which to wipe this sweat, so it inevitably began to trickle down his face. One particularly sadistic drop of sweat dripped into his eye. Before he could think about the consequences of what he was doing, Rory automatically blinked at the salty sting.

The moment Rory's eyes closed the angel that had been lurking on the periphery of the hole, just out of sight, made its move. It surged forward, arm extended, ready to seize the Doctor and drag him back into the darkness.

The Doctor had been looking upward the whole time and had no idea of the danger he was in. He was oblivious to lonely assassin's attack until he felt its hand close around his boot. Realization struck the Doctor like a battering ram and he looked down, getting the angel in view a millisecond before it could yank him from his improvised rope.

"Rory!" the Doctor shrieked with absolutely no compunctions against sounding like a little girl, as some of the bravest people he knew were at one time little girls.

Rory opened his watering eyes and promptly screamed like the Doctor, only loudly enough to startle Amy to the point she, too, screamed.

"Wait. What are we all screaming about?" Amy asked.

"The angel's got the Doctor's foot! Doctor, lose the boot!"

The Doctor twisted his leg and gave it a good shake. His tightly-laced boot remained both on his foot and in the angel's grasp. The Time Lord swore. He was not losing any more of his personal effects to the bloody weeping angels. They'd taken his bowtie, hair, jacket, shirt, and voice and he was not giving them one more of his favorite possessions unless they pried it off his cold, dead corpse.

The immobile angel provided the Doctor with a foothold so he no longer had to hang there like a Peking duck in a shop window. The Doctor clambered onto the angel, sat down on top of its head, and began pulling on his trapped foot. He could have easily unlaced the boot and escaped, but once he had decided he would not be leaving any more of his clothing behind, nothing was going to stand in his way.

"Give! Me! Back! My! Boot!" The Doctor grabbed his ankle and heaved. His boot popped from the angel's hand and the Time Lord nearly tumbled off his perch. He would have suffered a nasty fall if the angel's wings hadn't been there to catch him.

The Doctor sat cradled against the angel's out-spread wing, panting, hardly able to believe he was still alive and had all his clothes and physical features intact. He might have stayed there, shocked out of his senses, if something hadn't slapped him in the face. The Doctor looked over and saw Rory's belt hovering alongside him.

"If you stand up, Doctor, I can reach you and get you out of there," Rory said.

The Doctor looked up at Rory and then down at the angel. He took hold of the top of the angel's wing and carefully propped himself up. Keeping one hand on the angel to steady himself, the Doctor extended his other hand. Rory grasped him around the wrist and pulled.

A minute later the Doctor was laying sprawled out on his stomach with Rory sitting slumped next to him. Though Rory had to face the angel while the Doctor took a breather, he still had a smile on his face. He'd done quite brilliantly, pulling the Doctor from the claws of certain death, and all without losing his trousers in the process. That reminded him to seek out his belt and put it back on before his luck ran out and everyone learned that he preferred his undergarments to be polka-dotted.

"Hello, boys, have to blink here," Amy said.

"Don't worry, Rory, I've got this," the Doctor said. He turned himself around using his elbows and stared at the angel.

The moment Amy's eyes stopped burning, Rory's decided they'd been open long enough and wanted a rest. The Doctor was forced to spin around again and lean over the hole into the basement. It was painfully obvious to the three of them that this arrangement could not continue for long. The Doctor was in no shape to play watchdog, and as bad at staring as Rory was, the time when he would blink and the basement angel would vanish was no doubt rapidly approaching.

"We all know this is rubbish. Now what do we do about it?" Rory asked.

The Doctor considered it for a moment. He had three pairs of blinking eyes, and two angels to split between them. He also happened to have two pairs of unblinking eyes. If he could somehow get the angels to look at each other…

"Got it! Oh yes, very nice plan here! Clear the path for the most clever plan you've ever heard!" the Doctor announced.

The Doctor's voice hadn't improved much since his rescue, but at such a close distance Amy and Rory were able to get the gist of the Doctor's words. They strained their ears while he elaborated on his humble little scheme.

"We take this angel and we shove it into the hole on top of the angel already down there," the Doctor said. "They end up staring at each other, and presto! Oh, presto, that sounds nice. I'm going to start using that."

"That's lovely, but what about their mates? Won't the other angels come and save them?" Amy asked.

"If given the opportunity, yes. But I've got another plan to deal with them," the Doctor replied.

"What is it?"

The Doctor grinned an enormous, foolish grin. "You're going to wish you'd never asked."

* * *

TBC


	36. My Way

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

"Wait," Rory said. "Just wait. Before you say anything that makes us want to throw you back into the hole, let's make sure these angels won't be able to kill you. You said we had to make them face each other, so Amy and I should push this one down there. Right?"

"Unless you'd rather bring the one down there up here," the Doctor replied.

"I like Rory's idea better," Amy said.

Since the Doctor was in no shape to move statues anywhere, he took up the task of making sure the angel in the basement stayed still while Amy and Rory pushed its frozen friend to the lip of the hole. Even immobilized the angel proved to be a challenge; it was so heavy and unwieldy that moving it was as challenging as steering an elephant in a direction it did not want to go.

Once the angel was precariously balanced on the edge of the hole, the Doctor stopped the Ponds before they could give their stone nemesis a final push. He needed to make sure they got it right the first time, as they had no means to enable a reset or a second go. The Doctor checked the angels' alignment, ran a quick calculation in his head, and decided the chances of success surpassed the chances of failure. Green-lighted, the Ponds tipped the angel forward and it fell with all the grace of a crippled plane.

With one now lying atop the other, and each of them snarling into the other's face, the pair of angels looked like the universe's most unpleasant, terrifying lovers. The Doctor congratulated the Ponds on their excellent pushing. Rory and Amy gladly accepted the praise, but wondered if it wasn't a ploy the Doctor was using to blunt their anger when they heard his real scheme.

"Now that they're taken care of, what's the plan?" Amy asked.

"They're taken care of, but he's not. We can't just let him lay there, bleeding," Rory said.

"You, Mr. Pond, are getting very good at stalling," the Doctor said.

"And you're getting very good at losing blood."

"If you insist on playing nurse, I've got something in my pocket for you."

"Is that some sort of dirty joke?"

"No! Just reach in there and you'll know it when you find it."

Rory tentatively inserted his hand into the Doctor's pocket. His fingers met nothing but air, so he stuck his hand in a little farther. He encountered something soft and silky, closed his hand around it, and brought it out.

"Uh, how is your spare bowtie supposed to help me? Maybe if your finger was bleeding I could use it as a tourniquet but I don't see what use it'll be now." Rory dangled the white bowtie between his fingers.

"That's not it. You've got to keep digging. You're looking for a plastic box. Ignore anything else I might have in there," the Doctor said. "And if you feel something moist, that is _definitely _not for you."

Not enjoying it any better the second time around, Rory again went spelunking in the Doctor's pocket. His arm was swallowed nearly to the elbow before he found what he was looking for. He pulled out a box made of translucent plastic that was stamped on the top with a many-sided red figure.

"First aid kit courtesy of the Red Dodecahedron. They felt a red cross didn't have quite enough sides. Dodecahedron is much more inclusive. Friendlier shape, too, or so I've been told," the Doctor said.

Rory opened the box and examined its contents. Superficially, the box's innards looked like the expected contents of a well-stocked first aid kit; it contained sterile gauze pads and bandages, scissors, a variety of medications and disposable gloves. Once Rory got a better look, though, he wondered if the kit was meant for human use.

"These gloves have four fingers and no thumb," Rory said. "And what are these pills supposed to be? Space aspirin? I don't recognize any of the names."

"Doubt it. Aspirin, from space or otherwise, isn't included in most pan-species first aid kits. It tends to have nasty side effects on certain species. Take Time Lords, for example. Deathly allergic to aspirin. I don't think you're supposed to give it to cats, either."

"I'm not a veterinarian! I don't care what cats are allergic to! Please, Doctor, just tell me what medicine you need so I won't accidentally kill you," Rory begged.

"From the top left compartment, take the plastic vial and the packet underneath it. Combine them and give them a good shake."

Rory did as instructed, pouring the packet's crystalline contents into the vial and then shaking it like a margarita. The formerly clear fluid in the vial turned a sour shade of green. To Rory it looked less medicinal and more _Herbert West—Reanimator_.

"Is this going to cure you or raise the dead?" Rory asked.

"If you did it right, the former. Now help me take off my jacket and shirt."

"Is there a medically legitimate reason for that?"

"Actually, no, I've just decided to stop wearing clothes because partial nudity is cool. Come on, Rory Pond! Of course there's a medically legitimate reason! You're going to pour that directly on my injuries and it would help if there was nothing in the way."

Rory helped the Doctor sit up and then, as gently as possible to avoid exacerbating his injuries, eased the Time Lord's jacket off. The Doctor had taken to leaving his jacket unbuttoned because the angels couldn't seem to keep their grubby paws off it. Though one angel had exhibited a predilection for the Doctor's shirt, he'd been considerate of his companions and had, despite the safety risks, kept his shirt buttoned. Before Rory could ask if the Doctor needed help, the Time Lord's nimble fingers had undone the row of buttons and the front of his shirt hung open.

Removing the shirt was harder than removing the jacket because the Doctor's blood had begun to coagulate, gluing the fabric to his skin. Rory peeled the garment off, wincing every time the cloth stuck to the Doctor. It had to be agony, having anything touch the deep furrows the angel had carved into the Doctor's back, yet the Doctor remained quiet and stoic.

"Alright, Doctor?" Rory asked once the shirt had been removed and laid on the floor.

"Been better. 'Course, I've also been worse."

Rory didn't want to know how much worse, or when. While he'd been undressing the Doctor, he'd come to a realization: he enjoyed watching coma patients sleep infinitely more than he liked acting as a battlefield triage medic. People who did little but breathe—and certainly didn't bleed and make you concoct strange alien medicines you were uncomfortable and unfamiliar with—were easy. Time Lords were the exact opposite.

"Are you one-hundred percent sure about this?" Rory said.

"See the things I have and you'll never be completely certain about anything. But I am confident this will work. Now. Stop. Stalling!"

Rory uncapped the vial, tried to convince himself the trail of expelled vapor was normal and not toxic, and poured a single drop of the liquid into the deepest of the Doctor's cuts. There was a sudden hiss like rapidly boiling water that was accompanied by a simultaneous hiss of air through the Doctor's clenched teeth.

"Is it supposed to be doing that to him? Rory? Doctor?" Amy had been content to leave the boys to their medicine until the Doctor started making noise. Now she needed reassurance.

"It's fine, Amy! Go and watch the angels," the Doctor snapped.

"But they're frozen."

"Yes, but there are three more that _aren't_. They're wary, not useless, and if they think they can set those two free, they will try."

It was a legitimate concern, one Amy wished she'd realized from the beginning, but it was by no means the Doctor's only reason for sending her away. He wanted to save her the trauma of watching her Raggedy Doctor treated with what seemed like terribly barbaric means. As she sat down at the edge of the hole, Amy found herself wiping away errant tears.

"This stuff, it's some sort of…chemical cauterization. Doctor—"

The Doctor cut Rory off. "Do it. As quickly as possible."

Rory wished he could avert his eyes and cover his ears as he drained the vial's caustic formula. As the chemicals sizzled and sputtered, the Doctor jerked and whimpered like a dog so tormented by parasites it was reduced to snapping at its own skin. The pain was unending, maddening, and no wonder! The Doctor had practically cooked himself alive! Whether it was done with a superheated object or with highly reactive chemicals, cauterizing a wound was hell in the flesh.

"Doctor…" Rory had no idea what he wanted to say, so he shut his mouth and let his gestures do the talking. He reached out and touched the Doctor's hand. The Doctor responded by first squeezing Rory's offered hand, and then crushing it. Rory remained quiet while the Doctor mashed his hand like a stress-relief ball.

The chemical reaction burned itself out after what seemed like years. Rory had lost most of the sensation in his fingers by the time the Doctor released his hand. While Rory massaged life back into his digits, the Doctor tried to get his body to stop hating him. Considering the way he'd been treating it lately, he couldn't blame it for rebelling and purposely failing him. He needed to rest and heal, or at least wait until the pain in his back receded a little, and his exhausted body was screaming this at him. It wasn't like the Doctor didn't want to do as his biology demanded and collapse in a snoring heap; he just didn't have the time. Without any other options he ignored the internal alarms, pushed back the pain and the fatigue, and forced himself onto his feet.

"That is not a good idea. Doctor, sit back down," Rory ordered.

"I'm the Doctor, so I outrank you. I say it's time to finish this. Give me my shirt," the Doctor replied.

"At least let me bandage you so you're not putting cloth directly on your injuries."

"If you can do it quickly, be my guest."

The first aid kit provided plenty of ordinary sterile bandages that, as far as Rory could tell, could have come from any Earth hospital. He did his best to cover the Doctor's extensive injuries and, once satisfied (and out of bandages), he handed the Doctor his torn shirt and jacket.

"Now do we hear about the plan?" Amy asked. Even though she hadn't seen so much a talon despite all the blinking she'd been doing, she wouldn't feel safe until the three free angels in the basement were contained.

"Nope. We need one more thing," the Doctor replied.

"What?"

"George. Will one of you call him? My voice isn't up to the task."

"Why do we need George?"

"Because I'm only telling the plan once, and he needs to be here to hear it. I can't shout it halfway across the house."

By their powers combined, Amy and Rory managed to shout loudly enough for George to hear them, for them to convince him the Doctor was alive and nobody's voice had been stolen by weeping angels, and for George to find his way through the maze of Wester Drumlins and arrive after making only a few wrong turns. He stepped into the room, noted the hole in the floor, the ragged, bloody tears in the Doctor's clothes, and the darkening bruises around the Time Lord's throat, and decided not to comment on any of it.

"What'd you need me for?" George asked.

"A lookout. Insurance. A bearer of bad news if worst comes to worst," the Doctor said.

"That's a lot of responsibility."

"The third job's only important if my plan fails."

"And what is the plan already?" Amy was getting antsy, as she couldn't even turn away from the hole and watch the proceedings.

"We're going into the basement. Three of us, anyway."

There would not have been more of an uproar if the Doctor had suggested they put a bow on one of the angels and ship it off to the queen for a birthday gift. George didn't even know how many angels were in the basement, only that the number would probably be enough to kill him and he wanted no part in it. Rory and Amy called the Doctor insane, as well as several more colorful, less polite terms.

"We just pulled you out of there and now you want us to go back? With the angels that almost murdered you?" Rory demanded.

"If you want to die, there've got to be cleaner ways to do it," George said.

"Ways that don't take your friends with you," Amy added.

The Doctor listened to the protests, the jabs, the threats to put him in a straitjacket until he stopped being crazy and started thinking sanely again. He'd been expecting this and he sympathized with what everyone was shouting. What he had proposed was utterly and completely mad.

Utterly and completely mad enough to work.

He only needed to convince George and the Ponds.

"I know what it sounds like, but that's what makes it a good plan. The angels won't expect it."

"The angels won't expect us to throw ourselves out the window, either, but that still sounds almost as bad as what you're proposing," George said.

"Then what do _you_ propose, George? We sit here, twiddling our thumbs or bickering like Parliament, until nightfall? We have a deadline, you know. If the angels aren't dealt with by the time the sun goes down, we get to all die in the dark."

"We'll still die in the dark if we go along with your plan, only we'll do it five hours earlier!"

"I'd rather die trying to stop creatures that are more than capable of destroying the world."

"And I'd rather not die needlessly. What good will we be if we're all dead?"

"Doctor, I hate to do this to you, but I agree with George. I like being alive," Rory said.

"Please, can't you think of something better?" Amy asked.

The Doctor closed his mouth and surveyed his friends. They were not going to help him. He'd finally done it, finally concocted a plan so foolish and assuredly lethal that his companions all put their foot down and refused him.

"Who has my sonic screwdriver?" the Doctor asked.

Amy held the screwdriver up and whistled to get the Doctor's attention. He walked over to her, plucked the screwdriver from her hand, and then sat down beside her, letting his legs dangle over the edge of the hole.

"What are you doing?" Amy's voice rose in panic. "Doctor? Don't you dare!"

Before Amy could grab him and wrestle him away, the Doctor dropped into the basement. By some miracle he landed on the facedown angel's wings and managed to keep his balance. His less-than-healed injuries didn't approve of the Time Lord's acrobatics and the Doctor had to hide a wince as he hopped off the angel and onto the floor.

"Get back here!" Amy shouted.

Rory and George rushed to the hole to find the Doctor fiddling with his screwdriver and paying no attention to his friends. It was almost like…almost like he was blatantly ignoring them despite all the noise they were making.

"You're going to get killed!" Rory said.

Keeping his eyes firmly on his sonic screwdriver, the Doctor responded, "Only if I try to do this alone. I haven't got a chance then."

"Don't think you can guilt us into playing along! It isn't going to work," Amy said.

The Doctor flicked on the sonic screwdriver and the device bathed him in a green glow that was far stronger than usual. Satisfied, he held it out like a torch and took a single step towards the darkness of the basement.

Three simultaneous cries of "No!" were not quite powerful enough to keep the Doctor from taking a second, albeit smaller, step.

"You're behaving like a child!" Amy accused, and it was true. Threatening to deliver yourself to the weeping angels was quite a bit worse than threatening to hold your breath until you passed out or run away unless you got your sweets, but the tactics were the same.

The Doctor took a single long stride that bought him to the limits of the light shining down through the hole. Amy clenched her hands so hard her painted nails bit into her palms. As the Doctor had done minutes before, she scooted forward and let her feet dangle over the edge. Shaking her head, unable to believe what she was doing, Amy held her breath, bent her knees, and fell.

Amy was not lucky enough to emulate the Doctor's smooth landing. One of her feet found the angel's wing; the other skidded off. Unbalanced, Amy shrieked, flailed her arms, and fell backwards.

Instead of meeting the floor, Amy found her fall suspended by a pair of strong hands at her back. The Doctor grunted and pushed Amy upright.

"Thanks, Doctor," Amy squeaked.

"No, Pond, thank you."

"This doesn't mean I forgive you for manipulating me." Amy dismounted the angel, her feet knocking up miniature clouds of dust as she landed.

"I don't forgive you, either!"

Amy and the Doctor looked up. Rory was perched on the lip of the hole. He took a deep breath, stared directly at the Doctor and said, "Geronimo."

* * *

TBC

And with this chapter, _Angels in the Garden_ becomes my second fic to reach 100,000 words.


	37. Lights Out

Thanks so much for the reviews!

* * *

George didn't know which of them was more insane, Rory and Amy for following the Doctor's plan, or the Doctor for spinning it in the first place. Either way, George had no intention of climbing aboard the crazy train. The Doctor and the Ponds could traipse around in the dark basement until their hearts were content, or, more likely, until their hearts were stopped forever by the weeping angels, but George Mason was opting out.

"There is no force in heaven or on Earth that will get me into that cellar," George said.

"That's great, George, because we need you up there. You've got to watch these two angels and, if you should happen to hear anything that sounds like us being torn limb from limb, you've got to report back to Sally and Larry," the Doctor replied.

"And that's all I've got to do? Watch?"

"And report our gruesome deaths, should the need arise."

"Please don't give me a reason to have to do that. Stay alive."

The Doctor nodded. "Got it, George. Hear that, Ponds? We've got to stay alive."

"Oh, so that's all?" Rory asked. "That shouldn't be too hard. Make sure you tell the angels that George says we need to stay alive."

The Doctor lowered his voice so only Rory and Amy could hear him. "Not to disappoint George, but I don't think his authority extends very far with weeping angels."

"Yours doesn't either, Doctor, so why are you doing this? You still haven't even told us what we're supposed to do! You can't expect us to just walk out into the basement," Amy said.

The Doctor coughed.

"Oh, my God! You do expect us to do just that! At least tell me there's some sort of plan, even if you won't tell me what it is."

The Doctor remained silent.

"There isn't? There isn't." Amy shook her head. "You're going to make it up as you go along. While we're standing in the dark."

"Open to attack on all sides," Rory added.

"We won't be 'in the dark'. We'll have this." The Doctor waved the glowing sonic screwdriver around.

"That makes all the difference, then. We'll be in a little circle of light and the darkness will be all around us. I feel so much better now," Rory said.

George sighed and rubbed his temples. "You're giving me a headache. Either go get yourselves killed, or climb back up here."

"We'll take the third option. Stop the angels, save the world, then get fish and chips. I haven't forgotten about that. Amy, Rory, come here. We've got to make a circle."

The Doctor positioned the Ponds and himself so that, together, they had a full 360 degrees covered. Their circle was not the most agile shape, but it did maximize their chances of keeping the angels at bay. So long as no one blinked excessively, the angels would have no weak point to exploit.

"Move towards the stairs," the Doctor instructed, and the awkward circle inched towards the darkness.

At least they had a goal. Amy and Rory both silently wondered if the Doctor didn't have a plan after all. If he had an objective, maybe he had more.

Buoyed by the hope they weren't going to wander into the darkness and float around pointlessly and endlessly like the _Mary Celeste_ until the angels found a way to pick them off, Amy and Rory followed the Doctor out of the beam of light provided by the hole above them. As they moved into the basement, the sonic screwdriver's green glow bathed them and illuminated an area around them. This new circle of light was neither as large nor as comforting as the one they were leaving.

"Doctor, how did you make the sonic so much brighter?" Amy asked.

"Rerouted the power and shut down a few non-essential functions," the Doctor explained.

From somewhere in the blackness came a sound like nails on a chalkboard. Everyone winced and Amy covered her ears.

"What _is_ that?" she asked.

"Psychological warfare," the Doctor replied. "The angels are scraping the walls, trying to scare us. Ignore it."

The screeching died away and was replaced with total silence. The silence did not last long. Something like a gust of wind slashed through the air near Rory and he jumped back, colliding with the Doctor and nearly unbalancing him.

"Sorry," Rory said.

"It's nothing, don't worry about it. More psychological warfare. Whatever you do, don't let them get inside your head. Just focus on the stairs and stay calm. We'll be fine."

"He's a terrible liar, isn't he?"

Amy, Rory, and the Doctor stopped dead.

"Who said that? It was your voice, but that wasn't you," Amy said.

"Angel Doctor. It invaded my mind, pirated my voice, and now it's taunting us."

"He's led you to your deaths."

"Don't listen to it. Keep moving and don't listen."

The awkward circle started moving again. They were not quite halfway between the stairs and the hole in the ceiling.

"We will save you for last, Doctor. And we will make you beg."

"Shut up!" the Doctor snarled.

"So much for ignoring them," Rory muttered.

For reasons that had nothing to do with the Doctor's shouted commanded, the angel fell silent again. Instead of pacifying the Doctor, the new quiet further perturbed him. It was a silence brimming with potential, like the breathless moment after the lightning but before the thunder.

Amy nudged the Doctor gently, careful to avoid any of his numerous injuries. "We can't just stand here."

"Right you are, Pond," the Doctor replied, though his feet seemed to have other ideas.

"Please, Doctor, I don't like this. I know they're out there, watching us, and I know _they've_ got an actual plan," Amy said.

The Doctor nodded and forced his feet to lift and take a step. Amy and Rory stayed close, keeping the circle complete. Whatever the angels were planning, they'd have to implement it from afar. As the Doctor knew from having lamps and plumbing fixtures lobbed at him by the angel in George and Molly's guest bedroom, angels could overcome problems of distance with ease.

"Can't we go any faster?" Amy asked.

"No, because we will trip over each other's feet and then the angels will kill us all."

"They'll kill Rory and me first." The Doctor could have done without that particular reminder.

"Then they'll never get to me, because nobody is dying here today. Come on. We're halfway there," the Doctor said.

As the perfect marker for their momentous milestone, the sonic screwdriver in the Doctor's hands changed its pitch so imperceptivity that only the Time Lord noticed. It had been operating on a low, steady hum, far quieter than its usual whir, but now that pulse was just a smidgeon slower. And, the Doctor noticed as he concentrated, not entirely steady. It was like a heart with a defective valve beating just off-kilter enough for a trained cardiologist to catch the blip.

It could mean nothing. It could mean the angels were about to short-circuit the sonic screwdriver and plunge the basement into deepest night. The Doctor gave the screwdriver a little shake, hoping that would clear up the issue.

The sonic screwdriver responded by dimming until the safe zone it provided retreated to an area barely wide enough to admit the trio that depended on it for survival. Amy, Rory, and the Doctor all pressed against each other, neither Amy nor the Doctor noticing when her panicked elbow struck him in the back.

"Doctor!" Amy shrieked. "Turn it up!"

"I'm trying!" The Doctor's fingers flew over the screwdriver as he desperately reconfigured it.

The green light spread again, though feebly this time. Of its former confident glow there was no sign. The sonic screwdriver was a torch at the very end of its batteries.

Not good enough, the Doctor thought. He adjusted the screwdriver again, performing circuit triage, disabling all functions that were not completely necessary for the device's continued operation.

The sonic screwdriver showed greater life and the light crept farther, almost regaining all lost territory. The Doctor and his companions dared to breathe again.

"The angels are doing that, aren't they?" Amy asked. "Draining the sonic screwdriver."

"Yes." In concentrating all of the screwdriver's power in the few circuits required to turn it into a torch, the Doctor had made it vulnerable to hacking. Instead of having to pull power from a maze of complicated Time Lord circuitry, the angels were able to steal the screwdriver's energy from one poorly-protected corridor.

No matter what he did, the sonic screwdriver would not stay bright forever, or even for very much longer. They had to hurry unless they wanted to be stranded without light, but to hurry was to risk breaking the circle and leaving a blind spot for the angels.

"Forget what I said earlier. We've got to move and we haven't got long," the Doctor said. "Just stay in formation and don't blink."

Rory sought out Amy's hand and grasped it. With her free hand, Amy reached for the Doctor's hand. As much as he regretted it, he had to brush her hand away. He needed both of his hands free to operate the sonic screwdriver and adjust it should the need arise.

"Remember: stay together," the Doctor reiterated.

With that, he made for the stairs at a speed just below a jog. Amy and Rory, joined at the hand, matched his footsteps. It was, the three of them discovered, more difficult to maintain a circle the faster the circle was required to move. The Ponds could at least pull each other along; trying to judge exactly how fast the Doctor was moving and to keep pace perfectly with him was like practicing an advanced dance routine without the help of any choreographers.

"Doctor, can you please— Stop!" Amy suddenly screamed.

"What's wrong? Oh… Rory, keep staring at it. But not its eyes! Amy, watch our backs. I'll have you out of there in a second."

Rory swallowed compulsively. Why did things like this always happen to him? It wasn't like he asked the universe to send the most horrible, weirdest things after him. He would have been much happier if he'd never heard of stone angels that killed you when you blinked or fish vampires from Saturn or alien fruit that turned you blue.

"I can take off my own vest," Rory said.

To prove he was not paralyzed by terror despite the angel clutching a handful of his clothing, Rory slipped his arms out of his vest and left the angel with a vestigial of its original prize. Though he was now free, Rory's heart didn't seem to care. It kept trying to simultaneously explode and climb up his throat.

"Nicely done," the Doctor said. "We'll celebrate later, though, if you don't mind."

"And stop blinking so bloody much!" Amy added. "I'm not losing you again, especially not to some stupid rock monster."

Rory nodded. When your Scottish wife told you to stop blinking, by God you stopped blinking!

Crisis averted, the Doctor took the lead again. The stairs, and by proxy the protection of Sally and Larry's stares, were getting tantalizingly close. Maybe they'd actually make it.

The sonic screwdriver sputtered. The Doctor begged it not to do what he knew it was about to do.

Unimpressed by the Doctor's pleas, the screwdriver flickered off and darkness engulfed the basement and all unlucky enough to stand within it. Almost before anyone could register what had happened, the screwdriver came back from the dead. Its eldritch green glow was diminished and there was no question of bringing it back. The next time it blinked out, it would stay dead longer.

In the few milliseconds of darkness, at least one of the angels had made its move. Amy found herself staring at a clawed hand that hovered inches from her nose. If the angel had been given one fraction of a second longer, it would have been able to touch her.

"Does anyone else—"

"Yes," Rory whispered, his voice seemingly reluctant to leave his throat.

Rory's angel had come even closer. So close, in fact, that he was able to determine exactly how the winged alien had planned to kill him. As the angel was already touching him—one finger rested on the side of his neck and the rest had been frozen while in the process of tightening into a crushing grip—he knew the angel hadn't been planning on sending him back in time. It had intended to finish him off cleanly and in the present. Something told him that, had the angel crushed his throat, there would have been no temporal miracle to save him. Even for Rory Pond, the universe only allowed so many resets.

The Doctor was the only one not faced with stone mortality, and he was once more reminded of the thieving angel's promise. They did intend to let him live until they'd murdered everyone else. But exactly who did 'everyone' include? Only the Ponds? Everyone in Wester Drumlins? Perhaps even a wider scope? Was it possible that they planned to wipe out the Doctor's precious human race—and most of life on Earth—and make him watch, helpless, as the planet was sterilized?

Whoever the weeping angels meant to kill, the Doctor was determined to never give them the opportunity. But if he was going to save anyone, he needed to move fast.

"Back away from the angels and for the next thirty seconds, you cannot blink," the Doctor said.

"Why the next thirty seconds?" Amy asked as the claws reaching for her face vanished into the darkness.

"Because one way or another, that's all we've got. Maximum."

Confirming the Doctor's dark prognosis, the sonic screwdriver's light waned again. It was not fully extinguished this time, but its field shrunk. Now the Doctor and Ponds had all the free space of someone trapped in a packed lift.

"Is there anything you can do to—"

"No, there isn't. Keep moving," the Doctor replied before Amy ever had a chance to finish.

The sonic screwdriver's hum became erratic. As the device's whir stuttered, its light followed suit, dimming and brightening as the screwdriver wheezed.

"Fifteen seconds," the Doctor said.

Fourteen, thirteen, Amy and Rory both began to mentally count down.

With only ten seconds left, at best, before the weeping angels expunged the last energy from the sonic screwdriver, the Doctor horrified his companions by stopping. Amy and Rory both bumped into him before they realized what he'd done. The Doctor was unfazed by either the double jostle or the desperate pleas to either move or receive an explanation.

The Doctor raised his arm and aimed the sonic screwdriver at the ceiling. It blinked feebly in response to whatever he was trying to do. The Doctor swore when he realized what the problem was. The sonic screwdriver simply did not have the energy to both maintain its life-giving glow and perform the task he needed it to do.

"I'm so, so sorry but I've got to turn out the light," the Doctor said.

"What?" Amy and Rory shouted.

The Doctor flicked a switch on the sonic screwdriver and held his breath. The tip of the screwdriver went dark. At the same moment the light disappeared, the screwdriver vibrated in the Doctor's hand and emitted its characteristic buzz.

Overhead, the naked light bulb returned from the dead. It filled the cellar with light and exposed the weeping angels. Their cloak of darkness stripped away, the angels were forced to freeze as Rory and Amy's saw them. The Ponds were once again treated to the sight of their would-be murderers snarling and reaching for them.

"I cannot believe that worked. It did work, didn't it?" The Doctor spun around to find Rory and Amy staring fiercely at two stone angels that were glaring back with at least as much intensity.

"You can stop that anytime you want," the Doctor said. "At least I think so. Get out of the way so I can be sure. Shoo!"

Rory and Amy were driven away from the angels by the Doctor's flapping hands. They stood on the sidelines as the Doctor flitted from one angel to the other.

"The angles look good. Yep, they are definitely seeing each other. That's two down and one to go."

"And where is the last one?" Amy asked.

"Wait for it," the Doctor replied.

"Somebody? Anybody? Help! I don't know where it came from but I can't look at it much longer!"

Everyone turned to look at the far end of the basement. One angel was standing beneath the hole in the ceiling and it had a hand extended toward the pair of angels frozen together on the floor. The angel had obviously intended to free its comrades during one of George's blinks.

"I'll bet my entire stock of custard that that angel is the filthy, pilfering miscreant who stole my voice." The Doctor pointed to the angel across the basement.

"How'd you figure that?" Rory asked.

"Because it tried to be clever."

"Okay…"

"Spent too much time in my brain, got too full of itself, and made the grave and unforgivable mistake of leaving me to its lackeys."

"Right…"

"Do I have to make a flowchart and diagram it for you? That angel left these two—" The Doctor gestured madly at the two angels frozen facing each other. "—In charge of killing you two while it ran off to set its friends free and kill George. Then I'm sure it would have had some unbelievably sadistic things to say to me. Only the lights came back on, you didn't die, George didn't die, I don't have to listen to rubbish, and now we've got them! We've got all of them! We won!"

"Help!" George, unaware that three other sets of eyes were watching his angel, was at the end of his rope.

"George, you're ruining the mood with your whining!" the Doctor shouted. "Stop it!"

"But there's an angel—"

"We see it. Blink!"

George did as he was told and was pleasantly surprised to find the angel had not crept any closer while he blinked.

"Doctor, we can't leave George's angel there. It's not being looked at by any other angels," Amy pointed out.

"Not a problem. We've still got the dollies. We'll just wheel the angel from over there to over here. It can join these angels. Hell, let's get Larry and Sally's angel while we're at it. Why stop there? Let's make it a real party! We've got that last angel waiting in the lorry. Five angels trapping each other into perpetuity breaks my old record of four. I'll have to go back and rub it in my former self's face."

"And that's all? That'll be the end of it?" Rory asked.

"Barring unforeseen circumstances."

Nasty things, those unforeseen circumstance.

* * *

TBC


	38. Fatty, Fatty, No Parents

Sorry for the lateness of the chapter. Summer vacation isn't facilitating my writing as much as I hoped… Hopefully the next chapter won't take so long. If it does, feel free to wave angry digital fists, pitchforks, and torches at me.

* * *

The Doctor clapped his hands together. "Right, before we move any of the angels, we need to get a dolly. Rory, no, make that Amy, go to it."

"Why her? I've got longer arms," Rory said.

"I don't trust you not to fall into a hole."

"Come on! I won't."

"You did it once, and you'll do it again. We are doing no more rescuing today, Mr. Pond. Now come here and help me watch George's angel."

From above them, George said, "I really wish you'd stop calling it mine. I don't want it."

"Fine, it can be _my_ angel, if you're so particular. Rory, help me watch my angel. Happy, George?"

"I'm still sitting in a filthy old house that's filled with monsters. No, I am not happy," George replied.

It didn't take long for George and the Doctor to get into a row over what constituted happiness. Rory kept his mouth shut and drifted away from the fray, remaining close enough to keep his eyes on the angel but not so close the Doctor would remember his presence and demand his opinion to settle the matter.

While the Doctor and George argued and Rory played the part of Switzerland, Amy did as the Doctor said and fetched a dolly. Getting said dolly over the gap in the stairs proved much more difficult than stealing it from the supermarket had been. The initial plan—to simply roll the dolly on what remained of the Ponds' bridge—fell apart when the bridge did. The moment Larry rested the dolly's wheels on the bridge, the boards beneath both wheels slid downhill. As though roused by their companions' dash to freedom, most of the formerly stable bridge also decided to charge Amy. She was forced to fend off the stampede of lumber that banged into her shins and tried to knock her from the stairs.

Amy's tenacity overwhelmed the kamikaze boards and when the last one clattered past her and down the stairs, she was still standing. Unfortunately, she was standing on the last stable step before a nasty drop. And she still needed to get the dolly on her side. The only way to do that now was to have Larry pass the dolly, and have Amy grab it without leaning forward too far and falling into the hole. The dolly, with its heavy metal frame and large wheels, would no doubt try its damnedest to help her into that hole.

"Maybe this isn't the best idea," Larry said, as though reading Amy's mind.

"It wouldn't be so bad if _somebody_ would help me!"

Rory forgot all about George and the Doctor. They were now gesticulating their points, but, Rory noted, careful to keep their eyes on the angel and their flailing hands away from their faces. They didn't need his help at the particular moment. He broke away, unnoticed, and jogged to Amy's position.

Two Ponds were better than one and together they pulled the dolly across the gap and set it down safely on their side. They knew better than to risk the additional weight on the damaged stairs and hastily sought the floor. It wasn't until they had solid, unbreakable ground beneath their feet did the Ponds dare relax.

"That wasn't so bad," Rory said.

"Doctor, look, we did it. And Rory didn't even die!" Amy shouted.

"Then tell him to try harder! Wait, did what? And did I just suggest Rory die more often? Yes, I think I did. That was rude of me. Sorry, Rory, please don't feel pressured to die," the Doctor replied.

"We've got the dolly, so can we please finish this? And can we stop talking about my husband dying?" Amy said.

"Oh absolutely. Let's get George's, I mean _my_, angel first. It's standing, at least."

Amy and Rory looked at the angel fallen at the foot of the stairs. It was not going to be fun lifting the vicious block of stone so it could join the circle of its frozen peers.

Rory wheeled the dolly over to the upright angel and sized up the alien. He had not forgotten how heavy the angels were. Or how frightening, even when they were immobilized. He did, however, remember not to look into the angel's eyes.

Sliding the dolly underneath the angel for the third time proved that practice made perfect. Rory managed to get the angel on board without any sort of complications. He tipped the dolly just enough to get the angel off the ground and pushed the snarling stone monster towards the pair already frozen in mid-attack near the hanging light bulb. Rory waited for the Doctor to do the math and test the angles before he was able to wheel his angel in and form a triangle of perpetual quantum-locking.

Rory ever-so-carefully tugged the dolly out from beneath the angel. The Doctor gave the alien triad a quick once-over and declared them trapped. With the three angels now watching each other, it all came down to bringing the fourth guest to the party.

"Excellent piloting, Mr. Pond. Now we'll just—"

Rory cut in, "And by 'we'll' you mean Amy and I. Because you can't possibly—"

"Yes, I can possibly—"

"I had to cauterize your injuries half an hour ago! You are not going to overexert yourself and start bleeding again! No!" At this point, Rory stomped his foot down.

"Fine, I'll just stand here and watch you and Amy pick that angel up all by yourselves. I didn't realize one of you developed superpowers and never bothered to tell me!" The Doctor stepped back and crossed his arms.

Rory ran an errant hand through his hair as he looked from the angel to his wife. The Doctor was right. The angel probably weighed twice as much as he and Amy combined and there was no way to lift it by themselves unless they found some radioactive spiders or handy mutating gamma rays.

"You're right, Doctor. We can't do it alone," Rory admitted.

"Of course I'm right. I'm _always_ right. Except that time—"

"So we're going to get George. And Sally and Larry if we need them. You, Doctor, are not going to come near the angel."

The Doctor scoffed at Rory's plan. There was no way George would agree to venture into the basement. And how were Sally and Larry even supposed to get down? They couldn't be expected to jump over the hole in the stairs, and having them find the distant hole in the floor would take ages.

To the Doctor's great surprise—and disappointment at being wrong—there was an easy way to lure George into the basement. All Rory had to do was promise that George's presence in the cellar would get them all out of Wester Drumlins in next to no time, and that in any future arguments the Doctor and George might have, Rory would give George his unwavering support.

"I'm going to make sure you regret that," the Doctor said.

George dropped from the ceiling and, to nobody's surprise, did not have a smooth landing. Though he landed squarely on the plane of the angel's wings, he hadn't had the good sense to bend his knees and brace for impact. The sudden jolt of the landing made his legs buckle and he tumbled off the angel. With no one there to catch him, George flopped in the dirt and created a great puff of dust so thick it momentarily obscured him.

"I'm not going to say I told you it was a bad idea, but I did," the Doctor said.

Across the basement George coughed and raised himself up onto his hands and knees. A moment later he was on his feet. There had been no grace in his landing, but he'd escaped without injury. He dusted himself off best he could, though he still looked like he'd been living behind someone's refrigerator or under a couch for the past ten years. As he walked toward those gathered at the foot of the stairs, a dust cloud like a comet's tail followed behind him.

"Someone's doing my laundry," George said, eying Rory for the job.

"Sure, George, I'd be happy to. Help us get this angel on its feet—or whatever it stands on—and I'll wash whatever you like," Rory replied.

Once George arrived with his friendly dust cloud swirling around him, Rory was able to implement his grand plan. That plan consisted of positioning George in front of one of the angel's wings, placing himself at the other, and giving Amy the head. At his order, everyone was to lift their assigned part until the angel was upright or until someone suffered a hernia.

"Remember to lift with your knees, not your backs," the Doctor suggested.

"Yes, on the count of three, please remember that. Your spine will thank you. And thank _you_, Doctor, for the advice. Now keep back and don't even think about what I know you're thinking about. We can do this without you."

The Doctor held up his hands to show his compliance and then stuffed them deep into his pockets. If Rory didn't want his assistance, fine. So long as it didn't look like the angel was going to fall and crush someone.

On Rory's command, everyone pitted human strength against stone density. The angel rose an inch off the ground before, moments later, eating dirt again as human strength gave out.

"It's too heavy. There's no way we can lift it on our own," George said.

Rory bowed his head, not in defeat but in concentration. This wasn't about proving the Doctor wrong; it was about proving humanity wasn't helpless and didn't need Time Lord superiority to solve all its problems. It was a question of independence and self-worth, not a matter of two men throwing their egos at one another.

Rory felt a hand on his shoulder. Without looking, he could tell it was Amy. He knew the shape of her palm and fingers as well as he knew the shape of his own.

"One more go," she whispered to him. "We _can_ do it, Rory. We just need the motivation."

"Amy, you're right. We can do it, because we're doing it for a reason. We're doing it for Molly, for Bob and Eleanor, for ourselves, for every person on Earth these angels will murder if we fail and for every person they've already hurt. Think of those people and try again!"

It wasn't quite as rousing as William Wallace, but it wasn't bad. The only thing that worried the Doctor was how hard failure would hurt them in lieu of Rory's rousing call to arms. Yes, resurrecting Molly and stamping her down in front of George would make him fight until his arms turned to dust. Reminding everyone that the Earth was relying on them for its very survival would prod them to strain until they had nothing left. But if Rory, Amy, and George gave it their everything and the angel remained flat on the floor, then the weight of defeat would grind their spirits into the ground. George, especially, was vulnerable. His psyche could face irreparable damage if he believed he failed his wife again after failing to keep her safe and alive.

The Doctor shook his head. He couldn't let himself think negatively. He had to believe that his friends and companions were strong and determined enough to heave that angel off the ground and onto whatever weird base it stood upon.

"Count of three. One. Two. Three!"

The angel broke its previous record and kept climbing. Six inches and it continued to rise as steadily as a hot air balloon. A full foot and the team showed no sign of fatigue. A foot and a half and the angel was staring at Amy's knees. Two feet and the Doctor found himself crossing his fingers in a human gesture of luck and sticking his tongue out in a decidedly alien superstition.

By the time the angel was titled at a 45 degree angle and treated to the sight of Amy's stomach, the situation was not looking quite as rosy. Sweaty palms were threatening to ruin Rory's grip and George was grunting like an anime warrior powering up. The Doctor also noticed that two out of three pairs of eyes were clenched tight, and he was suddenly glad that he had been forced into being a spectator.

"You can do it. You're so close now, come on! Don't let that, that _fat_ angel stop you. Yes, you heard me right! Fat! Lay off the potential energy and crisps, why don't you?"

Amy snorted laughter. "Porker."

"I'm sure it's a glandular problem," Rory added.

George was too busy imitating Goku to contribute any insults, but he did manage to grin. At least that was how the Doctor chose to interpret the expression. It was equally possible George's grin was a misconstrued grimace of extreme exertion and physical strain.

Whatever the source of the angel's heaviness, laughing at the lonely assassin's expense did make its immense weight easier to bear. Amy, Rory, and George rallied and hefted the stone monstrosity until it was one almighty push away from standing. While the angel leaned waiting for that final push, it was at the perfect height to stare into Amy's eyes. It was only after she'd looked down at a less-likely-to-kill-her portion of the angel's face that Amy realized why she'd been assigned the head: Rory trusted neither himself nor George to avoid having their brain turned into a weeping angel incubator.

"We've got to do this as carefully as possible. If the angel rocks and tips backwards, we'll have wasted all that effort. If it tips forwards, we'll be squashed. And we'll have wasted all that effort, so we'll die very unhappy," Rory said.

"And if we don't finish this soon, my arms are going to snap!" George exclaimed.

"Sorry, George. All together, one last time, push!"

The push could not have been more perfect if its required force had been calculated and then delivered by a machine. The angel landed on its base, tilted backwards a miniscule degree, and then settled serenely. It hardly stirred the dust.

"That was…a bit anticlimactic, actually." The Doctor had envisioned himself having to leap into action like a time-traveling ninja to stop the angel from toppling, but he, like the magician on the beach, was not needed.

Despite the Doctor's disappointment, George and the Ponds loved the anticlimactic ending. In fact, they loved it so much that anything more exciting than the angel coming to a smooth and gentle rest would have likely caused at least one case of spontaneous human combustion.

"Anticlimactic or not, it's done," Amy said.

"Not quite. Do your duty, Mr. Pond," the Doctor said.

Rory, despite the quivering in his arms, took up his dolly once more. Moving slower this time—he didn't trust his limbs not to twitch and overturn the dolly—he brought the angel to its final resting place. Once the angel was in position and off his dolly, Rory massaged his aching arms and wondered if he'd even be able to use them in the morning.

Checking lines of sight was not too taxing a job for the injured Doctor to perform. He peeked over one angel's shoulder, saw the other angel staring back at him, and quickly ducked down before anything horrible wormed its way into his brain and tried to nest there.

"We may need to adjust them a bit to accommodate the last angel, but for now they're fine," the Doctor reported.

"And speaking of that angel, how do you propose we get it down here?" George asked.

"We'll drop it through the hole in the ceiling. By then we'll have everyone—Bob and Eleanor, Sally and Larry, Amy and Rory, and you, George—and getting it upright again shouldn't be so terrible. Maybe we'll even find something in the lorry to rig a pulley line. That'd be convenient."

"Fine, now how do we get out of the cellar?"

"I'll show you!" The Doctor took off running straight for the pair of angels that lay atop one another.

The Doctor used the angels as a springboard and launched himself upwards. He managed to catch the edge of the hole above him with one hand. He hung there single-handedly, wiggling like a worm on a hook, until George and Rory took pity on him and gave him a boost.

A number of cooperative arrangements later, everyone (including the dolly) was safely above ground. If all the furniture in the room hadn't been coated in a thick skein of dust, the Doctor would have collapsed into a chair out of pure relief. He had a feeling he would not have been alone.

"I know we're all exhausted, but we aren't done. Bob and Eleanor probably think we're dead by now, so let's go surprise them," the Doctor said.

The group traced their footsteps backwards through the dust and managed to find Sally and Larry after making only one wrong turn. Once the hugging and congratulating was over, the task shifted from uniting the group to getting the bloody hell out of the house of horrors. The Doctor had a fair mental map of the layout between the front door and the cellar door, so he donned the mantle of the shepherd. It didn't take him long (especially not with Sally there to correct him) to find the exit.

The Doctor opened the front door and discovered the dreary weather had actually cleared up. What had been a steady downpour was now no more than a slow drizzle. The sun might even have been attempting to peek out from behind the clouds, though that could have been wishful thinking.

"At least we won't be getting much wetter," Amy said.

"We're still damp enough as it is," Rory said.

George proved he had a sense of humor by humming the opening bars to _Here Comes the Sun_.

The Doctor studied the lightening day and, antithetically, was struck by a feeling of paranoid dread. Something felt wrong, and had felt wrong since Rory and Amy had retrieved the dolly without mishap. Amy's words played through the Doctor's head: "And Rory didn't even die." No, Rory hadn't died. Yes, there had been hang-ups, but they'd all been resolved in the best possible way.

Which was a fine reason to be suspicious. The Doctor's string of good luck never ran so long. There had been so many opportunities for disaster—everything from George falling off the angels to the Doctor hanging by a hand from the ceiling—and yet none of those near-disasters had ever evolved into real calamities. George had gotten up and brushed himself off. The Doctor had been helped by his friends and, despite his floundering, hadn't even reinjured his slashed back or gotten a single splinter. It was all too perfect.

The Doctor found himself quickening his pace to get ahead of his companions. He needed to get to the lorry and see Bob and Eleanor sitting there, worried but unharmed.

"Doctor?" Amy asked as the Time Lord ran past her. "Is something wrong?"

"No." He reached the lorry and skidded to a halt. "Yes."

* * *

Author's Note:

Since I know it's such a strange line and reference, the magician on the beach is from Douglas Adams' _Life, the Universe, and Everything_. The whole quote is, "A magician wandered along the beach, but no one needed him."

The title, I think, is not quite as obscure a reference.


	39. To Points Unknown

Thanks for the reviews. They're much beloved.

I'm also glad the previous chapter's _Portal _reference was so enjoyed.

* * *

Amy's questions dulled and blurred into background noise. The peripheral world faded into the impressionist swirls of a Van Gogh painting, though what lay directly in front of the Doctor sharpened to harshness. As though his legs had a mind of their own, the Doctor found himself propelled forward without conscious thought.

The Doctor rushed up the ramp that led to the lorry's cargo space. Transferring from the incline of the ramp to the plane of the lorry's bed, the Doctor stumbled. He couldn't find the time to stand up fully but instead continued forward in a bent, almost simian posture before abruptly dropping to his knees.

A torch, its head crushed, its lens, bulb and plastic casing shattered and scattered, lay in front of the Doctor. He ran an absent hand through the debris, turning over the shards and pushing them around, as though they were food on his plate he wanted to postpone eating. There was no delaying the knowledge of what the ruined torch and empty lorry represented, though. Bob and Eleanor were gone. The angel was gone. The Doctor had failed.

With a primal roar, the Doctor clenched his hands and raised them above his head. Ferocious, inconsolable, he slammed his fists down on the jagged remains of the torch. Pain spiked through the meat of his hands as plastic and glass skewered him.

This was far gentler than he deserved. He'd promised them! He'd promised he'd be right back and that nothing would happen to them. He'd promised them a happy ending and a chance to be heroes and now they were vanished into the past or laying in a nearby ditch with their heads turned around backwards. It should have been him. It should always have been him. For more than nine hundred years people had been dying in his place and he was sick of it. Bob and Eleanor were just two more sad little bits of kindling for a pyre that had been burning for a millennium, a pyre he'd been feeding a steady supply of friends and companions and even complete strangers.

"What in the hell have you done to yourself, Doctor?"

Arms circled the Doctor from behind and hugged across his chest. He felt himself lifted off his knees and pulled away from the torch. He left a clear trail of blood droplets as whoever had him in the ultimate bear hug continued to drag him away.

"Amy's going to murder you when she sees what you did to your hands. What would possess you to hurt yourself like that?"

"They're gone," the Doctor answered numbly.

"Bob and Eleanor? Maybe they're hiding. Did you ever think of that before you butchered yourself? No, stop clenching and let me see the damage."

Rory lowered the Doctor into a sitting position and crouched down in front of the damaged Time Lord. He lifted first the Doctor's right hand and then the left, examining each hand and the numerous cuts it had received.

"This is just brilliant! You must have forgotten that I used all of our medical supplies patching up your back. What am I supposed to do if you've still got foreign bodies in the cuts? What if you get an infection? I don't know how to treat that in a Time Lord. What if I give you penicillin and you drop dead?" Rory demanded.

"They're not hiding, I'm sure of it. The angel did something to them, and left the torch behind so there'd be no doubt. It wants us to know," the Doctor said.

"You didn't hear a word I said. I don't know why I should expect any different. I might as well be a ghost. Maybe you'd hear Amy if she—"

"Amy! She should have been the one doing the hugging, the shouting, the worrying." The Doctor, still treating Rory as though he were phantasmal, leapt to his feet and veered around the confused man.

"Yes, Amy, ginger, Scottish, my wife. What… You're right. She should have been here first. But she was beside me, right beside me and—" Rory whirled around, his heart suddenly lodged in his throat and a bottomless pit threatening to consume his stomach.

Aside from the Doctor standing at the top of the ramp, there was nobody else in sight. Amy, Sally, Larry, and George had been scrubbed from existence in a matter of seconds.

Rory swayed and was forced to steady himself on the lorry's wall. While he leaned there, his head spinning and his world disintegrating before his eyes, his vision blurred with tears. Amy was gone. How was he going to live without her? They'd just been married. They were supposed to have a future! How was he supposed to start a family with a woman who was either dead or banished to the eighteenth century?

Rory's mind began to tailspin like a mortally wounded airplane. _He_ was the one who was always dying or being erased from time; Amy was as constant as Newton's laws. How could she be gone? What was he going to tell her parents? He was not ready to be a widower. How was he going to live out the next fifty lonely years without the one woman in the whole universe he was destined to be with? He wasn't, that was how. He was going to die of grief and loneliness and it would be a miserable, teary, pitiful end and then he'd—

A sharp stinging pain accompanied by the crack of flesh meeting flesh shocked Rory back to his senses. He looked around and was surprised to see his own hand raised, the palm flat and obviously ready to slap him again.

"Did I…just hit myself?" Rory wondered. "I think I must've."

The self-administered slap was enough to boot Rory from the path of crippling despair and depression he'd been so keen on walking. Once his head had been cleared of those distracting emotions, he was able to look at the situation through more analytical eyes. Unusually analytical eyes, the more Rory thought about it. He was thinking of his wife's abduction and possible murder less like her husband and more like a soldier. Namely a two-thousand-year-old Roman soldier.

The Last Centurion had once again taken up his sword and shield.

Rory took a deep breath. With the Centurion's training and stoicism at his command, Rory was able to concentrate on more than curling up in a ball and crying until his tear ducts died from exhaustion. He focused not on the emotional agony of no longer having a wife, but on the logistical problem of how to either rescue Amy from the grips of ancient history or, if she was dead, to bring the wrath of the whole Pantheon down on the weeping angel's head.

Alone and inexperienced when it came to weeping angels—driving them around on dollies hardly made Rory an expert—Rory could expect to do one thing if he went after the angel alone: die. He needed the Doctor. Seeing as how the Doctor had just shredded his hands in a fit of insanity and grief, Rory wasn't sure of the Doctor's mental capacities.

"Doctor," Rory said, approaching the Time Lord.

The Doctor did not acknowledge Rory. He continued to stare out at the stretch of ground between the lorry and Wester Drumlins.

"We can't lie down and die. Even if everyone's dead—and I won't believe they are until I have to—we've still got to stop the last angel. I need your help. Please."

The Doctor was silent for a moment before he said, "Amy would be proud, Mr. Williams."

"Thank you. Now what do we do?" Rory asked.

"What? I thought this was _your_ turn to take charge."

"My plan's already worked; it's your turn now."

"Plan? I didn't see any plan."

"The plan that gets you to stop self-destructing and start kicking angel arse. You are ready to do that, right?"

"Didn't know you even knew the word 'arse', a nice Leadworth boy like you. But yes, I am ready to kick it if you're willing to help. The Last Centurion and the last of the Time Lords—"

"And me!" Larry Nightingale, streaked with more mud and grass stains than a rugby player in monsoon season, crawled out from beneath the ramp and then collapsed atop it, panting.

Larry did not have time to catch his breath before Rory and the Doctor both grabbed his arms and yanked him into the lorry. He left a trail of muck behind him as he was pulled deeper in the vehicle. His collected filth was spread farther when the Doctor hauled Larry up and crushed him in a hug. Rory had never been so happy to see a mud-monster and joined in the hug.

"Why is everyone so happy to see me?" Larry squeaked as his lungs were pressed like the bellows of an accordion.

"Because _somebody_ got away," the Doctor said.

"But we can get everyone else back, right? I mean, you've got that time machine. Can't you find them wherever the angel sent them and rescue them?" Larry asked.

"If the angel did send them back in time."

"That's what they do, though, isn't it? On that DVD you said—"

"That was then, this is now!" The Doctor released Larry from the hug so his hands would be free to gesticulate. "And in that more innocent time, weeping angels were nicer."

Larry sputtered. "Nicer! I lost my sister to them, and then they almost murdered me and Sally! How could they get any worse?"

"There could be more of them. Lots more. An army of them. And they could wipe out an entire highly-advanced civilization. And they could decide to break your neck instead of sending you to the past and then steal your voice and then use your stolen voice to lure your friends to their deaths! But wait, there's more! They could put their image in your head and make you count backwards so you'll know the second, the very bloody _second_ of your death! And I'm not finished yet!"

"Yes, you are. And you're sorry for that performance. Larry doesn't need that right now, and neither do I," Rory interrupted.

Larry was too horrified to reply. The thought that Sally—as well as the Doctor's friends Larry had just met—could be dead and not merely misplaced and retrievable glued his mouth shut.

The Doctor stopped blustering and dropped his hands down to his side. Rory couldn't miss the smears of blood the Doctor's hands left on his jacket. There was no way all that flailing was good for the clotting process.

"Is there any way to tell?" Larry finally gathered the courage to ask.

"Finding their bodies, obviously. Or… No. Yes. Maybe!" the Doctor exclaimed.

"So can we know or can't we?" Larry asked.

"I don't know. Why don't you pay attention when I'm talking to myself? I have an idea of where to look, but we can't go there yet because the angel probably isn't done making me sad," the Doctor replied.

Rory and Larry grimaced at the Doctor's words. They were the only two of the Doctor's companions that remained, and in trying to figuratively tear his heart out, the angel might literally tear out theirs.

"Then we've got to go on the offensive and freeze the angel before it kills us. It's three against one, and we've got to act while we've got that advantage," Rory said.

Deciding to attack and deciding how to attack were two issues separated by a gulf the size of the Great Rift Valley. Connecting the two with a viable plan wasn't easy, and the sudden introduction of an ungodly noise from the front of the lorry didn't make turning mental cogs any better.

"What's making that sound?" Larry asked, his hands pressed over his ears.

"I think it's the radio," the Doctor replied.

"The _what_?"

The Doctor rolled his eyes and pried Larry's hands off his ears. "The radio!"

"Oh. Why?"

"Didn't anyone tell you? The Nazgul have a talk show now," the Doctor said. "That's them discussing the price of petrol."

If the Doctor hadn't been injured there, Rory would have punched him in the shoulder. Now was not the time to be a sarcastic prat. Now was the time to figure out why the radio had suddenly come to life and was trying to deafen everyone.

Or why the piercing static was replaced with a woman's voice. Or why, upon hearing said woman's voice, the Doctor paled and stiffened like a day-old corpse.

"Molly," the Doctor muttered. "Of course it had to be you."

"Molly? George's wife? You said she was dead. How can she be on the radio?" Rory asked.

"It isn't really her, it's Angel Molly. It's got her voice and it's going to torture us with it. At least George isn't here for this," the Doctor said.

As disturbing as the dead woman's voice on the radio was, Rory saw it as an opportunity and a possible miscalculation on the angel's part. No matter how traumatizing or hurtful hearing Molly was to the Doctor, the angel paid for its sadism by revealing its location. If it was playing with the radio, it had to be in the lorry's cabin. Given the angel's wingspan, squeezing into the cabin couldn't be easy, and Rory anticipated this handicap would slow the angel's escape.

"Come out and play, Doctor," Angel Molly said.

"What's your game? Hopscotch? Pokémon? Mumblety-peg?" the Doctor replied.

The angel laughed. Its laughter began as human, but quickly deteriorated and descended into the soul-scratching screech that served as laughter for the weeping angel species. At the sound of the angel's demonic laughter, Rory and Larry both clamped their hands over their ears. The Doctor winced but kept his hands at his sides. He had heard the gross facsimile of laughter before, and was better able to stand it than either of the humans.

"Angel with a sense of humor. I love it," the Doctor said once the angel's laughter had faded. The look on his face suggested otherwise.

"I don't," Larry said, agreeing with the Doctor's face.

Rory said nothing because the plan he'd begun to enact required silence on his part and noise on everyone else's. Trying to move as quietly as an assassin creeping into his sleeping target's bedroom, Rory edged down the ramp, which was slippery with mud from where Larry had sprawled out.

"The game is survival, Doctor, and the only rule is winner take all," the angel said.

"And by all, you really do mean _all_. Our lives, the Earth, everything," the Doctor responded, though only a fraction of his attention was on the angel. Most of it was directed at frantically waving at Rory, who was now tiptoeing towards the corner of the lorry.

Hoping the Doctor read lips, Rory mouthed, "I know where the angel is. Keep talking," and pointed towards the cabin.

The Doctor's best weapon was his words, but even for him speech was hard to come by when his only remaining Pond was going to get himself killed. The Time Lord understood what Rory assumed, but had the experience to know that Rory assumed wrong. The angel did not have to be physically next to a device to use it as a speaker, as Angel Bob had spoken through a communicator and Angel Molly through a phone without being nearby. Just because the angel was talking through the radio, that didn't mean it was crammed in the driver's seat and fiddling with the electronics. It could be anywhere, watching its baited trap and prepared to strike.

Rory turned the corner and the Doctor buggered any notion of keeping the conversation going. The angel said something, though the Doctor neither heard nor cared. He leapt out of the lorry, foregoing the ramp entirely, and was running the moment he hit the ground.

The Doctor turned the corner and, with a millisecond to spare, saved Rory from the clutching talon of death.

* * *

TBC


	40. Creative Problem Solving

Thanks for the reviews!

I am both happy and saddened to report that this fic is quickly coming to a close. I've learned to never predict exactly how many chapters are left, because I'm always wrong, but the long, strange journey is almost over.

But not quite yet!

* * *

"Rory, stop pretending to be James Bond and turn around!" the Doctor ordered.

"But the angel-" Rory began.

"The angel isn't in the bloody cab, it's right behind you!"

Rory turned and came face to snarling maw with the weeping angel. "Oh," was all Rory managed to squeak. This centimeters-from-death thing was beginning to wear holes in his heart, he was sure of it.

"Yes, 'oh', as in 'oh thank you, Doctor, for saving me,' and 'oh, God, why haven't I learned to listen to the brilliant Doctor yet?' Very succinct commentating, Rory," the Doctor said.

Rory was in no mood, having had another decade or so scared off his life by the weeping angels, to get into a sarcasm contest with the Doctor. To keep the Time Lord placated, Rory said, "Thank you, Doctor, for once again saving my life. Now can we please finish with these angels so I can get my wife back?"

"I was thinking we should hang out with them a little longer. They're not so bad when they're going after Bond, Rory Bond," the Doctor teased.

"Fine, Doctor. You 'hang out' with the angel. I'm getting the dolly," Rory replied.

"Brilliant idea. Send Larry to help watch the angel, or I'm sure both it and I will be gone before you get back."

Rory skirted around the angel and alerted Larry that it was safe to emerge from the lorry. Larry hastened down the ramp and added his eyes to the staring forces.

The dolly hadn't moved from where it had been abandoned. Rory was relieved; he'd expected the angel to have flung the dolly into a tree or mangled it beyond repair. The angel must have been too busy fiddling with the radio and stalking people to worry about pulling the wheels off the dolly.

Rory retrieved the muddier-than-ever dolly and dragged it back to the lorry. Larry, the Doctor, and the angel were still there. Rory was really beginning to enjoy this, finding things where he left them, and not somewhere mysterious or horrible. He could get used to it, but didn't dare to hope it would last.

Never in the long and complicated history of the universe had anyone been as good at hauling weeping angels as Rory was, so the job naturally fell to him. For what he hoped was the last time in his life, Rory got the angel onto the dolly. Before he rolled it anywhere, though, he and the Doctor had a little problem to solve.

"You said it would be easier this time, that we'd have everyone to help. But we haven't, and, if we're being honest, we might as well not have you, Doctor, because of what you did to your hands. Larry and I can't lift the angel ourselves, so what are we going to do about it?" Rory asked.

"We're going to do what your species has been doing for a million years and what mine has been doing for considerably longer: we're going to use tools," the Doctor explained.

"What kind of tools? I expect the lorry would have a spanner or screwdriver, but I don't see how that's going to help."

"That's because you're being pessimistic and uncreative. I don't like either, so stop it. Stay here, get happy, and I'll see what I can scrounge."

Rory stood with one hand resting on the dolly while the Doctor traipsed to the lorry's cab. The Doctor had found a torch and batteries in the glove box, and figured it wouldn't be a bad place to start looking.

The Doctor used the less-injured of his hands to open the glove box and then rifled through the contents. It seemed the glove box had already dispensed its best prizes. The only thing of interest that remained was half a chocolate bar, which the Doctor pocketed for later celebratory consumption if everything went well.

Having found nothing truly useful in the glove box, the Doctor tried under the seats next. He encountered a folded paper that turned out to be a map of London. Areas of common traffic congestion were clearly marked on the map, and most of the M25 motorway had been engulfed in cartoonish flames and was, if the Doctor was interpreting the drawings correctly, patrolled by the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Knowing which roads led straight to War, Famine, Pestilence, and Death was no doubt useful for avoiding road-rage and aggravation, but the map wasn't much use for dealing with weeping angels. The Doctor refolded the map, set it aside, and went back to spelunking.

Whoever drove the lorry professionally was aggravatingly neat and tidy. Asides from the map, the void under the driver's seat didn't offer anything else except a stray button. The passenger seat provided a CD of Queen's greatest hits, a paperback novel, and a pencil, which poked the Doctor and made him quite unhappy.

Temporarily defeated, the Doctor clambered out of the cabin and retreated to the back of the lorry. The lorry's storage space didn't smell any less like cabbage, and it was as dim as ever. The Doctor flicked his sonic screwdriver at the one remaining light. The sonic buzzed feebly like a dying bumble bee and couldn't find the energy required to glow. The hum slowed like a failing heartbeat and the sonic screwdriver died in the Doctor's hand.

The sonic screwdriver had given its life in most noble service, and the Doctor decided the only proper thing to do was to give the sonic a traditional space burial. He dropped the burnt-out device into his pocket for safekeeping until the funeral and then recommenced bumbling around in the dimness.

Though the lorry had been resistant to yielding any more prizes, the Doctor wasn't ready to surrender yet. He still hoped to discover what he needed because the lorry's proper driver was prepared for an emergency, as the torch and spare batteries in the glove box had shown. The Doctor didn't expect the driver to have stocked the lorry for a full-scale alien invasion or the zombie apocalypse, but was it too much to ask for a decent toolbox?

The Doctor stubbed his toe and heard a metallic scrape as whatever he kicked went sliding. He pursued the skidding object and was rewarded with the toolbox he'd been hoping for.

The Doctor hefted the toolbox, which was discouragingly light, and brought it out of the lorry and into the light of day. He set it down and opened it.

"Find anything?" Rory asked.

"Hammer, three different spanners, another torch, screwdriver, duct tape, more duct tape—"

"Duct tape's good. We can use that," Larry interrupted.

"How?" the Doctor said.

"You can do anything with duct tape," Larry replied. "The Mythbusters proved it. They built a plane, and a boat, and a chicken trap."

The Doctor removed the two rolls of duct tape from the toolbox and brandished them at Larry. "You think _duct tape_ is going to be any match for the most cunning predator ever to evolve? In the great cosmic death match, you want to put _duct tape_ in the Earth's corner?"

"They built a bridge out of it, too."

"Oh, in that case, I agree with you. Look, Rory, we're saved. We've got duct tape!"

"I can't tell if you're being sarcastic or not," Rory responded.

"Me either. You're good," Larry said. "But I really believe in duct tape. Besides, we haven't got any other options, have we?"

The Doctor lowered his arms and looked wistfully at the box of non-sonic tools. The duct tape was the best and only choice. And it did make a fun sound when it was pulled from the roll. A sound, the Doctor realized, he couldn't make without causing his hands considerable pain.

"Larry, since you and duct tape are best mates, here. Take this and, uh, do whatever the Mythbusters would do."

"They'd make strands and braid them together to increase the tape's tensile strength. Like how you make rope."

"Sounds excellent. Actually, it sounds better than excellent. It sounds plausible. Plausible enough to work!"

With Larry appointed the keeper of the tape and the lorry ransacked for all its secrets, there was nothing else to stall progress. Rory dug his feet into the muddy earth and, after a bit of slipping and squelching, got the dolly rolling. The Doctor and Larry followed behind.

Wester Drumlins hadn't improved since Rory had last seen it. The whole place still smelled like it had been locked in an attic and forgotten for a century, dust still lingered everywhere in a thick, silent, allergenic shroud, and it still felt like monsters could leap out from behind any door. To make the atmosphere even less pleasant, the dolly decided to acquire a squeaky wheel, which sounded as ominous as banjoes while canoeing or a John Williams score while swimming in the ocean.

The only thing that made the final trip better than the first was that the plethora of footprints was easy to follow. The trio and their statue found the hole in the floor with no problems and no wrong turns.

"Do I just tip it in?" Rory asked as he stood at the lip of the hole.

The Doctor peered down into the basement and nodded. "Unless you'd rather be a bit more dramatic and kick it in, though I wouldn't recommend it."

Rory was not a Spartan, and thus did not try to kick the angel into the hole. He settled for tilting the dolly forward and letting gravity do what it did to stones. The angel fell, struck its brethren that were forever trapped directly below, and came to rest in a cloud of dust that for one heart-stopping moment threatened to obscure the angel and give it a chance to escape. The Doctor clenched his hands, Larry held his breath, and Rory raised a threatening fist at the dust. The dust, obviously intimidated by the fist of the Last Centurion, settled down and decided not to be the weeping angel's ally.

Once the dust had dissipated, the angel wranglers looked for a way down into the basement that had the lowest likelihood of someone breaking a leg or skull. The easiest way, they concluded, was to lower oneself into the hole, dangle for a few seconds until either one's fingers cramped or one felt confident enough to let go, and then hope for a smooth landing.

Rory volunteered to go first. He let the hole swallow first his legs and then incrementally the rest of his body until only his fingertips were visible, clutching at the edge of the hole. He hung there for a moment, screwed up his courage, and let go. Rory just had time to bend his knees before his feet met the broad wings of the facedown angel. He swayed with the impact but managed to keep his balance.

"I made it," Rory reported.

Larry slid the two rolls of duct tape onto his arm, took his chances and, minus a shaky finish, earned high marks from all the judges. Once Larry moved out of the landing area, the Doctor prepared for a longer fall. His hands couldn't be expected to support him, and so he intended to sit down, scoot himself into the hole, and hope for the best.

Before the Doctor could drop, however, Rory leapt back onto the angels and blocked the Doctor's access. He waved his arms frantically like he was trying to warn a train about a car on the tracks and the Doctor stopped moving.

"No, Doctor, you stay up there," Rory said.

"I'm not staying up here; I'm coming down there to help," the Doctor replied.

"How are you going to help us down here? You can't lift with your injured hands. Stay up there and watch the angel."

"I'll have you know that this," the Doctor held up his hands, "is by no means the worst injury I've ever received. It's not the worst injury I've ever had to work around, either."

"I'm not letting you risk your hands. How are you going to fly the TARDIS and get us home if you get an infection and your hands have to be amputated?"

"Even if I got an infection, which is highly unlikely given my immune system, it would take days for my hands to rot off."

Rory wasn't swayed. "Fine, but what if you injure your hands beyond repair?"

"Then I'll…go to the twenty-fourth century and get robotic hands."

"Like Luke Skywalker?" Larry chimed in.

"Yes, like Luke Skywalker! Look at what he did with a robotic hand!"

"I don't care what Luke Skywalker did or didn't do with his robotic hand in the twenty-fourth century! Doctor, you're staying up there! If you want to help, look for something we can use to rig a pulley."

The Doctor huffed and puffed and ruffled his tweed and threatened and finally stomped off like a child denied sweets. It was easy to tell where he was upstairs, because his heavy, angry footfalls shook dust from the ceiling.

"He's supposed to be a thousand years old, and he behaves like he's two," Rory grumbled.

"I think geniuses are supposed to be that way. They are in movies. Like in this one I saw, the genius bloke could play the piano like Mozart, but then he liked getting naked and jumping on trampolines," Larry said.

"Thank God the Doctor doesn't do that. At least not while we're around. And I don't want to think about that anymore. Do you want some help with that duct tape?"

Larry had taken a seat on the angel so he could watch it as he looked down and braided his duct tape. Without looking up, Larry slid the remaining roll of tape off his arm and pitched it underhand to Rory. Rory caught it and decided, as the basement didn't have any nice park benches available, that sitting on the universe's most lethal piece of rock was better than sitting on the filthy floor. He joined Larry and, after watching Larry to learn his technique, began to tear off long strips of tape.

"How much rope do you think we need?" Rory asked.

Larry scratched his head. "When the Mythbusters tested it, they found a single piece of duct tape could hold 60 pounds or something like that. But I don't know how much the angel weighs, or how much stronger duct tape becomes when you twist it together like this. I think we should use all we have and hope it's enough."

Rory wished his survival, as well as the survival of everyone else on the planet, didn't directly rely on something Larry saw on the telly. Since the Earth did depend on something Larry saw who knew how long ago, Rory could only hope duct tape was as magical as Larry thought it was.

While Larry and Rory wove duct tape, the Doctor's tantrum fizzled. As much as he hated being bossed around by the less-ginger of the Ponds, the Doctor hated losing his friends to weeping angels several trillion times more. He took a deep, calming breath and started scavenging for something long enough to stretch across the hole and strong enough to bear the angel's weight without snapping and producing jugular-seeking javelins.

Like a butterfly seeking the tastiest nectar, the Doctor flitted around the room, trying to recall what each drop cloth hid beneath its lumpy exterior. When he'd first been searching for the angel, he'd torn through the drop cloths, not taking note of the chair or footstool beneath the cloth, just making sure the bulky shape wasn't a weeping angel. Now, as he was forced to lift the tarps a second time, he wished he'd paid better attention.

The Doctor uncovered two matching armchairs, a stout lamp, an end table that looked like it had been attacked by a gargoyle, and an oil painting of a duck. Or maybe it was a swan. Or the Loch Ness Monster.

It was a truly terrible painting.

The Doctor covered it again and moved on to a rectangular piece of furniture pressed against the wall. The Doctor pulled off the shroud and was rewarded with a grandfather clock that stood taller than him.

The clock was beautiful despite its years hibernating at Wester Drumlins. The Doctor ran a hand down its face, clearing away a thin layer of dust that had wormed its way beneath the protective covering. The clock, who knew how many years ago, had stopped with both hands pointed straight at twelve, marking either noon or midnight. Its pendulum was as still as its hands, though both looked like they could begin to move again at any second.

The age and pristine condition of the clock made destroying its mechanisms and disassembling it all the more painful. The Doctor silently apologized as he opened the clock's case and began to yank out its guts.

In the basement, Rory and Larry had nearly run out of duct tape. They were each in the process of twisting a final strand when a peculiar metal-on-metal clinking and clanking stopped their hands. Not so long ago, the strange machine-shop sounds would have had them looking around in blank confusion. They'd both learned, though, that no noise, no matter how weird, was worth diverting their eyes from the weeping angel.

"What do you suppose that is?" Larry asked.

"The Doctor doing…something," Rory replied.

The mechanical noises continued and were punctuated by the occasional thud, stomp of feet, and presumed swear in a language the TARDIS didn't translate. Rory and Larry returned to their work but kept their ears pricked. Whatever the Doctor was doing, it sounded far more technical than putting together a simple pulley.

As suddenly as they'd begun, the noises stopped. There was a respite of total silence before the Doctor's footsteps pattered across the room and toward the hole. He appeared above Larry and Rory a moment later.

"Look what I made," the Doctor said proudly.

"Should we really be taking our eyes off the angel?" Rory asked.

"Yes, Rory, this is important and you need to see it. I'll watch the angel."

Rory and Larry put their lives in the Doctor's eyes and looked up. The Doctor was crouched down on the lip of the hole and he was holding some otherworldly device in his hands, hands that were, Rory noticed among the gleam of metal, bleeding freely again.

"It looks like some sort of steampunk weapon or torture device," Larry said.

"Well it isn't. Though I suppose if you swung it hard enough, you'd scare off anything that was capable of feeling fear."

"What is it and how did you make it?" Rory asked.

"It's not as impressive as a timey-wimey detector, that's what it is. But I made it out of a grandfather clock, a few circuits from my sonic—it was an organ donor, so don't feel bad—and my bootlaces."

"That's amazing. I still have no idea what it does or what it is, but it's amazing," Rory said.

"You've done something amazing, too: just look at all that rope! I couldn't have done it. I would have gotten bored and fallen asleep."

Somehow a huge snake of twisted duct tape didn't inspire in Larry and Rory the same awe the Doctor's unnamed machine of brass, gears, and bootlaces did. Humility came easy for them in lieu of the Doctor's praise.

"Happy we could help, Doctor. Do we, uh, combine forces or something now?" Rory asked.

"Not forces, but your duct tape and my sonic pulley." The Doctor laid his machine across the hole and exhaled once it was proven long enough, if only by a few inches. If he'd misjudged the size of the hole, he would have been well and truly cornered. He'd run out of bootlaces and Rory and Larry's sneaker laces would not have been acceptable substitutes.

"Throw me your part," the Doctor said. Larry coiled the duct tape and threw it up to the Doctor.

With a practiced movement that suggested he'd done it a thousand times and could do it blindfolded, underwater, and in the middle of an air raid, the Doctor leaned dangerously far over the hole and threaded the duct tape around the gears of his sonic pulley. When he was finished, two tails of duct tape, one much longer than the other, hung from the machine.

"Take the longer end and secure it around the angel. I'd suggest around the waist and under the wings. Once you've done that, pull on the shorter end. If everything goes right, you two should be more than capable of lifting the angel," the Doctor said.

"And if it goes wrong?" Rory asked.

"The pulley will probably yank your shoulders from their sockets. I don't think it will actually pull your arms off, but if you feel any muscles separating, for the love of fish fingers, let go of the rope."

Larry and Rory were not surprised. Somehow the Time Lord's plans often came down to either success or dismemberment.

Praying it would not be the last time they were ever going to use their limbs, Rory and Larry grasped the dangling duct tape. Rory counted aloud to three, and together he and Larry pulled for all they were worth.

Their shoulders remained firmly in place. The angel, on the other hand, had moved considerably. It had, moments ago, been resting flat on the ground. It was now upright and had left the floor altogether.

Rory and Larry were both so startled by the sight of the angel hanging suspended that they released the rope. The angel dropped the inch or two it had been hovering and fell firmly on its base without so much as a quiver. It would be no problem for Rory to get the angel onto the dolly in its current position.

"Doctor, it worked. How did it work?" Larry asked.

"Simple physics, plus a little bit of Gallifreyan sonic technology. One pulley by its lonesome certainly makes things easier, but extrapolate the lifting capabilities by adding—"

"Science! It worked by science!" Rory interrupted. "Doctor, please, just get the dolly. You can get into details later."

The Doctor, miffed at the intrusion into his explanation, handed down the dolly with a pout. Rory received it and was dismayed to find two clear bloody handprints on the handles. He was really going to have to do something about the Doctor's hands once this was all over.

It was all over a minute later when Rory positioned the final angel in a circle with its friends. He and Larry both closed their eyes to ensure the angles were right, and when they opened their eyes, they were still alive. That was all the proof they needed to exchange celebratory high fives.

The pair returned to the hole, where the Doctor was waiting for them. The minute it had taken Larry and Rory to escort the angel to its eternal resting place had been the longest minute of the Doctor's life. Once he saw they were safe, a brilliant grin formed on his face.

"Excellent job, Mr. Pond and Mr. Nightingale. Let's go get our friends back."

* * *

TBC!

An alternate title for this chapter: spot the _Good Omens_ references.


	41. The Writing on the Wall

Thanks for the reviews! Excellent work on finding the _Good Omens_ references in the last chapter, too.

While I'm not completely certain, I see this story having one more chapter. Of course, as I've learned through experience, one can in fact be three, but we'll know next time. And in other news, with the addition of this chapter, _Angels in the Garden_ becomes my longest story by word count. Yay!

* * *

Climbing out of the cellar was easy with the aid of the Doctor's sonic pulley system. After detaching the rope from around the angel and then tying it around Larry's waist, Rory was able to winch Larry off the ground with all the effort it would have taken to lift a small child. Once Larry was sufficiently close to the ceiling, he grabbed onto the lip of the hole and, with the Doctor's bloody hands grasping him under the arms, he was able to claw and slither his way to safety.

"Stop using your hands, Doctor! Larry, don't let him do anything else!" Rory shouted from the basement.

"The more I help, the quicker you get out of that hole, and the quicker you get out of that hole, the quicker you and Amy are reunited," the Doctor replied.

"You can't use Amy to bribe me! I can get out of here myself. Larry, throw me the rope."

It wasn't quite pulling himself up by his bootstraps, but it was close. With the duct tape rope looped securely around him, Rory grasped the dangling end of the rope and, hand over hand, pulled himself up.

Whether it was because pulleys didn't work so well when the load tried to lift itself, because something had gone wrong with the pulley, or because his muscles had gone on strike after being treated like workers in an Upton Sinclair novel, Rory found his task more difficult than anticipated. As the duct tape turned slippery in his grip, Rory was transported back to school with his sadistic PE teacher jeering at him for having the upper body strength of a wet noodle.

"I am not a weakling," Rory muttered under his breath. "And I _have_ been working out."

His jaw locked determinedly and his eyes fixed on the goal above him, Rory channeled a furry distant ancestor who hadn't yet come down from the trees and scampered for all he was worth. He gripped the rope with his feet for added traction and, ignoring the sweaty palms that threatened to drop him, fought for every last centimeter.

"Come on, Mr. Pond! Look, I'm touching things. Get up here and stop me before I do irreparable damage to my hands and have to fly the TARDIS with my toes," the Doctor said.

Though he hung precariously, Rory forgot his position for a moment and laughed. The Doctor knew just how to motivate him.

The last few inches were, as last few inches tend to be, both the hardest and the most rewarding. Rory reached the end up the rope and, before he had time to enjoy his feeling of accomplishment, realized he had no idea where to go. He was dangling more or less in the middle of the hole and, with his fingers and arms cramped and tired as they were, didn't think he'd have the strength to reach out and grab the edge of the hole without slipping off the rope.

"Need a bit of help!" Rory cried as he felt his tenuous hold slipping.

Larry sprung into action. He knelt down and reached out as far as he could. He got a hand around Rory's wrist just as the rope slid through Rory's fingers. Larry hadn't had time to properly anchor himself, and as all of Rory's weight transferred to him, Larry was inexorably dragged down.

"I'm sorry, Rory, but I've got to use my hands. Yell at me after we pull you out." The Doctor joined floundering Larry and took hold of Rory's other hand, which was flailing about, looking for any support.

Together, Larry and the Doctor dragged Rory onto solid ground. As soon as they released him, Rory drew his arms up to his chest like a victim of strychnine poisoning and moaned. His limbs had been stretched and pulled too much for one day. What was worse, he couldn't even in all fairness yell at the Doctor unless he wanted to sound like an ungrateful bastard. He'd just have to have Amy do it for him.

"You aren't going to lie there, are you?" the Doctor asked, standing over Rory and peering at him.

"Only until my arms start working again," Rory replied.

"Why? You don't need your arms for walking."

"Fine. I will walk and heal at the same time if it makes you happy."

Trying not to move his arms, not even to balance himself, Rory staggered to his feet. "There, I'm ready. Now how are we going to find Amy and everyone else?"

"Larry knows," the Doctor responded.

Larry didn't look like he knew. Larry looked like he'd been called on in class while he'd been daydreaming about robots fighting Godzilla in space.

"I have no idea," Larry replied.

"Yes, you do. You know exactly where we need to look."

"No, Doctor, I don't. I don't know where the angel sent everyone."

"Of course you don't! None of us does. But you do know where we can find out. Come on, think like Sally."

"I can't. She's cleverer than I am. She has to do all the budgeting and paperwork for the shop, because if I try, I know we'll be thrown in jail for cocking up the taxes."

"If this is going to take long, I'm going to lie back down," Rory interrupted.

The Doctor shot Rory a dirty look and then clasped his hands on Larry's shoulders. "Think back. How did Sally know I had been sent to 1969 by weeping angels?"

"You…you wrote it on the wall! There was more on those DVDs, too, but Sally wouldn't have ever made it back alive if you hadn't told her to duck," Larry said.

"Bingo! And she must have shown you the room. You remember where it is, right?"

"That isn't the kind of thing even I'd forget, and I sometimes leave home without my trousers."

With Larry now ready to lead, the Doctor and Rory followed behind him. Larry proved to be as good of a tour guide as advertised, and he traversed the halls and corridors of Wester Drumlins with confidence. It didn't take him long to arrive in front of a closed door, which he pushed open. Rory and the Doctor likewise crossed the threshold and the writing on the wall let them know Larry had done his job.

Rory stepped closer to the wall and examined the note the Doctor had left for Sally Sparrow. "This is all very interesting, but how does a message you wrote years ago help us find people sent back in time today? Unless all people weeping angels touch go back forty-three years?"

"Can't be. They sent my sister back to 1920," Larry said.

"Then I don't see the point of coming here."

"That," the Doctor said, "is because you're not looking in the right place."

Rory spun around and scanned the room. It was like all the other portions of Wester Drumlins he'd seen: decaying, dusty, and creepy. There was nothing that looked like a link to the past, or a clue as to where and when the angel had banished everyone.

"I still don't see anything," Rory said.

The Doctor replied by striding past Rory. Once directly in front of the message on the wall, the Doctor reached out and pinched a strip of peeling wallpaper between his thumb and forefinger. Before Rory could remind him with great and furious anger not to use his hands, the Doctor tore the wallpaper free.

The wallpaper revealed grey, blank wall beneath it. The Doctor sighed. "I should have known it wouldn't be that easy."

"What wouldn't be easy? Why are you making the wall naked?" Rory asked.

"Because that's where the message is going to be!"

"What message? The message is right in front of you. _Beware the weeping angel_ and all that."

"Not _my _message, _their_ message."

"Who is going to send you a message by writing it on this wall?"

"Sally Sparrow, of course. And, with luck, Amy, Bob, Eleanor, and George."

The gears turned and understanding bloomed in Rory's mind. "I get it now! You sent Sally a message, telling her when you were, and now she's going to send us one in the same way! That's brilliant."

Enlightened, Larry and Rory were more than happy to help the Doctor strip the wall. Rory was so enthusiastic he snatched wallpaper the Doctor was reaching for and tore it off for him. When the Doctor opened his mouth to complain, Rory threatened to restrain him using his bowtie and jacket. The Doctor decided to cede the wallpaper to Rory's capable, undamaged fingers.

Larry and Rory cleared a wide swatch of wall around the message before the Doctor called them to a halt. While they pulling clinging bits of paper and ancient glue from their fingers, the Doctor examined the blank canvass of the wall and frowned.

"It should be here. It _has_ to be here," the Doctor muttered.

"Maybe the angel sent them to a time before this house existed. We don't know how old it is. They couldn't have written a message on this wall from a thousand years ago," Rory said.

Larry nodded. "He's right. There are plenty of reasons why they couldn't write. We'll just have to go and look for them."

"Looking for humans in the slipstream of time isn't like looking for a lost dog. If I don't know where to start, I could overshoot by thirty years. If I do that, and enter their timeline to find them all old or dead, there's no way to correct it! They stay old and dead!" the Doctor shouted.

"Then we start, I don't know, two thousand years ago or something absurd like that. Then we can't miss them," Rory said.

"And do what? Check every single day for two millennia?"

"If we have to."

The Doctor threw up his arms. "Beautiful, stupid, naïve human hope! If I didn't want to punch it, I'd love it! You don't grasp how big two thousand years is. Sure, I can build another timey-wimey detector, a better one that doesn't blow up chickens, but what good is it if we arrive in 1492 at noon, find nothing and leave, but they arrive at quarter past? Do we check every hour of every day? Where do we draw the line?"

"So what if we miss them by a day? How much trouble can they find in that time?"

"I don't know, Rory, how much trouble can we find in a day? Say, today, for instance? A lot of bloody trouble, even by my standards!"

"I wouldn't want to spend a day in the Dark Ages. You could catch the plague or be burnt at the stake," Larry said.

"Someone gets it," the Doctor said. "History isn't as friendly as you think it is."

"It isn't as though I don't get it; it's that you're acting like they're not worth the effort. I waited two thousand years for her once and I'm prepared to do it again."

"That's all very nice when you're made of plastic! You aren't anymore! You're made of- of meat! Animated meat with an average life expectancy of eighty years! We will be at this for 730,000 days, and that's before leap years. Even if we spend minutes per day, time accumulates. You age."

Rory closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Then go without us."

"When were you made of plastic?" Larry asked. "Oh, yeah, Doctor, you can go without us if you think that's a good idea. I don't think Sally would appreciate me being twice as old as her. It would get awkward."

The Doctor nodded. "That was excellent thinking, Rory. Very outside-the-box and clever, just like you."

Rory found himself blushing at the Doctor's compliment. He'd never dared to consider himself clever even by human standards—he was a nurse, for pity's sake, not a brain surgeon or astronaut—but in contrast to a mind like the Doctor's, Rory felt like a fish or a bird, not even an animal in the same class.

"So here's the plan. You two stay here. And I mean _right here_. In this room, in front of this message. Don't go into the basement, don't go outside, don't…"

"Don't what?" Larry asked. "And what are we supposed to do if we've got to, you know, pee?"

The Doctor ignored the question and instead squinted at the wall, as though trying to make out some tiny detail on it. He raised a hand, extended a finger from that hand, and poked the wall.

"Uh, Doctor?"

"Rory, come over here and feel this."

Wordlessly, Rory did as the Doctor said. He ran his fingertips down the wall and, unless he was mistaken, felt slight grooves etched into it.

"It feels like something's there, but it's so faint," Rory said.

"Yes, but what sort of something? Imperfections in the construction, age wear, or the message that's had me tearing out my hair?! Ah!" The Doctor snapped his fingers. "I know how to find out. Grave rubbings."

The Doctor reached into his pockets and began to empty their contents onto the floor. Larry and Rory watched in wordless wonder as the Doctor scattered an impossible amount of crap about the room. When the Doctor pulled a pencil from his left pocket, he didn't discard this, but instead tucked it behind his ear. He then went back to excavating.

"What are you looking for?" Rory asked.

"Paper. Preferably thin and white."

Rory searched his pockets and found a few pound-notes, which were far too crisp and colorful to serve the Doctor's purposes. He returned them to their home. Larry likewise patted his pockets and came up with only lint and a few coins.

"Sorry, we've got nothing," Rory said.

"Not a problem, because I think I've found what I need." The Doctor then proceeded to pull a small library from his pockets.

"Why'd you bring all those books?" Larry asked.

"Because last night I was feeling grim and sentimental, and I wasn't sure I'd survive today. If I died—and I half-expected to—I wanted to die with something decent in my pockets. Also, the authors were all friends of mine, so I wanted them close at hand," the Time Lord explained.

Rory examined the stack of books the Doctor had set on the floor. "I don't believe this. You met all these authors? Oscar Wilde, Agatha Christie, Hardy, Henry James, Dickens and, and _Shakespeare_!"

"Did I ever. He flirted with me."

"He didn't."

"He did. And I hope he forgives me for doing this, but considering the others are first editions…" The Doctor tore a blank page from the very end of _Love's Labour's Lost_ and flattened it against the wall.

The Doctor took the pencil from behind his ear and, pressing the page with his other hand, rubbed the side of the pencil's point against the paper. He continued this until a wide swath of the page was grey with graphite and he'd eroded the pencil tip down to a nubbin.

The Doctor tucked the pencil back behind his ear and brought the paper up to his eyes. He squinted, shifted the paper, and then beamed.

"Read this." The Doctor shoved the paper into Rory's hands.

"It's a date. Ninth of June, 1942," Rory said.

"And what's next?"

"Letters, I think. A, B, E, G, and S. Amy, Bob, Eleanor, George, and Sally!"

Greats mind were purported to think alike, and the minds of Rory, Larry, and the Doctor all thought "group hug" at the same time. The hug lasted until Rory noticed the partial handprints the Doctor was stamping everywhere with his blood, and as politely as possible, requested a breakup.

With the hugging postponed until the Doctor was no longer a danger to himself and other people's clothes, it was time to return to the TARDIS. Just as soon as the Doctor shoveled all his effects back into his pockets. Considering the mess he made, cleaning up took longer than expected, as Rory had to retrieve objects that had rolled under furniture. Finally all was right with the Doctor's pockets and the trio bid a fond farewell to Wester Drumlins. They then ran as fast as they could from the haunted house and to the lorry that awaited their return.

"Are you sure you're fit to drive?" Rory asked.

"Perfectly. Look, I've improvised bandages," the Doctor said, holding up his hands.

"Are those…socks?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, yes they are. Oh, don't give me that look. They're clean. I might be a madman with a box, but I'm not crazy enough to wear dirty socks on my hands."

There was no use pushing the issue, as the Doctor was determined to drive and, as far as Rory knew, there was no one else qualified to drive the lorry. Rory didn't have the proper license, and Larry didn't look like he ought to be trusted with any vehicle larger or more dangerous than a smart car.

The ride back to the TARDIS was much nicer than the first trip had been, as nobody was forced to sit in the cargo hold with the smell of musty cabbages and the weeping angels for company. Larry even rediscovered the Queen CD hidden underneath his seat and the lorry was filled with Freddie Mercury bemoaning the tragic fate of the poor boy from the poor family.

The lorry pulled into the supermarket car-park and the Doctor, responsible borrower that he was, returned the lorry to the exact spot he'd found it. He then hopped out, keys in hand, to report to the market's manager that her delivery lorry was not going to explode or poison anyone. While he did that, Rory and Larry walked over to the TARDIS. A small group of tourists were taking pictures with the police call box. Some of the younger tourists, ironically, were taking those photos with their phones.

The tourists abruptly stopped snapping photos the moment the Doctor appeared on the scene. Not that anyone could blame them for staring and stepping away from him as though he was foaming at the mouth and covered in red pox. And he was wearing socks on the wrong appendages.

"What're you standing around for?" the Doctor asked.

"You locked the doors," Rory replied, rattling the handles.

"Oh, right. Let me just take care of that." The Doctor snapped his fingers. The doors remained locked.

"Please don't tell me you locked the key inside the TARDIS," Rory pleaded.

"Of course not. It's in my pocket. One of them. Somewhere."

Larry and Rory groaned.

"Wait, I know what's wrong." The Doctor sidled up to the doors. "I'm alive, I do not have wings, and I still think comfy chairs are cool."

The locks disengaged with a click.

"That's my girl. Now who's up for a trip back to lovely 1942?"

* * *

TBC!


	42. Such Sweet Sorrows

Well, folks, this is it. And let me just say, it's been a hell of a long time coming. Thank you all so much for the support.

* * *

Rory and Larry clung to anything available, including at one point each other, as the TARDIS hurled through the time vortex with unusual violence. It seemed the Doctor, in his haste to reach 1942, neglected to activate any sort of stabilizers, and both he and his passengers were tossed about like stray socks in a dryer. At least the Doctor seemed to be enjoying the sensation of being pitched up like a tiny boat in a hurricane; he grinned broadly as he hung onto the careening TARDIS' control panel.

"Doctor, you're going to get us killed!" Rory shouted as the TARDIS gave a particularly nasty lurch.

"Killed? No, this is fun! Besides, we're almost there," the Doctor replied.

"Brace for impact!" Rory and Larry clutched the railing and wished the TARDIS came equipped with airbags.

With an unmistakable, breathy _vworp_, the TARDIS reentered normal time and space and landed with a slight bump. Rory and Larry released their white-knuckled grips and stood up, thankful just to be alive and in one piece. The Doctor bounded by them, unperturbed by all the jostling, rolling, and listing. He flung open the doors to reveal a day as grey as the one they'd just left.

"Welcome to London, circa 1942. If you find anything that looks like a bomb, please don't touch it," the Doctor said.

Rory and Larry stepped out of the TARDIS behind the Doctor. In what had to be his most accurate piloting expedition in centuries, the Doctor had landed precisely where and when he wanted. He'd parked the TARDIS is the gardens behind Wester Drumlins, and had even managed to hide a majority of the blue box behind some ornamental horticulture.

"Right place, right time, so where are they?" the Doctor asked aloud.

"Are you looking for the funny people I found in my garden?"

Three heads turned simultaneously towards the source of the question: a young blonde girl in a knee-length red dress and matching boots.

"Er, yes, probably. Were there five of these funny people, and did they appear out of nowhere?" Rory asked.

"Are you the Doctor? The nice boy, he said a man called the Doctor was going to find them and take them home," the girl replied.

"No, he's the Doctor." Rory pointed to the Time Lord in question.

"I'm glad you're a doctor. One of them threw up," the girl said. "I had to put the newspaper over it."

"Unprotected temporal travel will do that to you," the Doctor said.

"Right, I'm sure it will. Can you take us to see these people? They're friends of ours. One of them is my wife," Rory said.

The girl nodded. "We're having tea by the fountain."

The girl skipped ahead and the men from the future followed. As they walked, Larry whispered to Rory and the Doctor, "I know that girl."

"You mean she's still alive in 2012?" Rory asked. "How'd you recognize her?"

"I don't mean like that. Sally and I did research on Wester Drumlins to see who owned it and who disappeared here over the years. That little girl and her whole family vanished in 1944. They were the first, I suppose, but over the years, there were tons more," Larry said.

"There's nothing you could do, Doctor, to stop all that from starting, is there? I mean, we couldn't go to 1944 and, I don't know, trap the angels?" Rory asked.

"Of course we could, if you don't mind a time-line-shattering paradox that threatens the very fabric of reality. I _do_ tend to mind those things, though, so my hands are tied," the Doctor replied.

"What if we just warned her?" Larry asked.

"Then she'd just be more frightened when the angels did come for her. I'm sorry to say, but time is fragile enough when weeping angels are involved. You know she disappears. That time-line is set, and there is no way to safely change it," the Doctor said.

Larry and Rory asked no further questions. They also found it difficult to look directly at the vibrant, skipping, doomed girl, and averted their eyes to the sky, ground, or nearby greenery.

The girl came to a halt in front of an ornate fountain that had either been carted off or destroyed sometime in the interim years separating 1942 and 2012. Despite the threat of rain, the child had arranged a tea party on a spread blanket, and sitting either on the blanket or resting against the fountain was everyone the angel had misplaced.

"I brought the Doctor!" the girl announced. She then pointed at George. "He's the one who threw up."

Five heads swiveled around to stare at the girl. Then, in one unified, fluid movement, five bodies leapt to their feet and threw themselves at their rescuers.

Bob moved like a missile and the moment he reached the Doctor, he launched himself at the Time Lord, tackling him to the ground in a move that was equal parts hug and takedown maneuver. The Doctor grunted as his injured back was acquainted with a particularly rocky patch of soil. Bob, unaware of the damage the Doctor had received, continued to squeeze him as tightly as he could.

"I knew you'd save us," Bob sobbed, burying his face into the Doctor's jacket. "I knew it, Doctor Bowtie."

A moment later, the Doctor found another thankful admirer plastered to him. Since Bob was directly atop the Doctor, Eleanor had to settle for grabbing one of the Doctor's flailing arms and locking it to her bosom in a vice grip that cut off all circulation from the elbow onward.

While Bob and Eleanor mobbed the Doctor, Amy and Sally did the same to the men in their lives. Larry somehow managed to brace himself before Sally leapt into his arms, but Rory never stood a chance. He was flattened by an undisclosed weight of pure Scottish joy, and wouldn't have had it any other way.

George was the only one left without a hug-buddy or two. There was no way he was going to intrude on Amy and Rory or Sally and Larry's reunion, and the Doctor did seem sufficiently smothered. Though, George noticed, only one of the Time Lord's arms was pinned to the chest of a young woman. That unclaimed arm could be his.

"Who's got my other arm? George, is that you? I hope it's you," the Doctor said.

"Yes, Doctor, it's me. Thank you so much for not leaving us here to rot," George said.

"Wouldn't dream of it. Well, I might, but they'd definitely be nightmares and I'd feel very disappointed in myself afterwards."

"Personally, I… why've you got socks on your hands?"

Eleanor examined the arm she was clutching and discovered it, too, ended in a hand wrapped in socks.

"I thought they might appreciate some fresh air," the Doctor said.

That explanation might have been acceptable if George didn't take a good, hard look at the sock and notice the blood. He released the Doctor's arm and scooted away in a sort of crab-scuttle.

"It's nothing, really. A torch and I had a disagreement. We decided to call it a draw."

"How can you have a row with an inanimate object?" George asked.

"Don't tell me you never shouted at your car or computer."

"Well, maybe, but I didn't punch them or whatever you did to yourself."

"What's a computer?"

In all the hugging, tackling, and weeping, the little girl who had assembled the castoffs from the future and invited them to tea (not that her mother knew she'd taken the last of the weekly tea rations) had been forgotten. She was quickly brought into the conversation.

"It's a sort of machine you use to learn, or play games, or listen to music," Bob said.

"Like a radio?" the girl asked.

"Uh-huh, but with pictures. They're, uh, not very common yet."

"Why do they make people angry?"

"Because sometimes they don't work, and it costs an arm and a leg to get them fixed or buy a new one," George said.

The girl nodded. "That's what Daddy says about _everything_."

At the mention of the girl's father, a new sobriety descended on the time travelers. A child viewed strangely-dressed visitors to her garden as an adventure. An adult male in charge of protecting his family in the middle of a world war would view the same people quite differently, especially once he learned they appeared out of thin air, lost their lunch on his footpath, carved their initials into a wall in his house, and drank all his tea.

"Your dad, he's not going to find us anytime soon, is he?" Rory asked.

"He won't because he's in Manchester all week. But Mummy should be home soon. Do you want to meet her?"

"We'd love to, but we've got to be going before George throws up anywhere else. Oh dear, I think he's starting to turn green again," the Doctor said.

"I am not!" George protested, but the littlest resident of Wester Drumlins, having seen quite enough puking for one day, thank you very much, was already running for the house.

The Doctor, once he'd extricated himself from Bob and Eleanor, hopped to his feet. Or tried to. The hop became a stumble and the Time Lord ended up leaning on Bob for support while Eleanor held his arm to steady him.

"You're hurt, and I don't mean just your hands," Bob said.

"It's nothing. Once we get back to the TARDIS—"

Twelve-year-old boys were not famous for their ability to let a subject drop, or to wait. Bob ducked under the Doctor's arm and circled behind the Time Lord. The Doctor was too unsteady on his feet to play keep-away with his own body, so he could only hope Rory had managed to hide the worst of the damage.

"Bloody hell!" Bob exclaimed.

"How bad is it?" Eleanor asked.

"It looks like he was attacked by those dinosaurs with the big claws, the ones from _Jurassic Park_."

"For your information, it looks nothing like that, and yes, I do know from personal experience," the Doctor said.

"You were really attacked by raptors once? That's brilliant! You gotta tell me about it!" Bob cried.

"I'm not telling you anything. You're nosy."

"Please?"

"No!"

"PLEASE?"

"Nope."

"_PLEASE_?!"

"Oh, fine. It all started 65 million years ago, in the middle of—"

"Later, Doctor!" George interrupted.

"Hmm?"

"There's a woman coming this way, and she's got a shovel!" George exclaimed, pointing towards the house.

"Ah. Don't worry, I've got a plan... Run!"

It was a merry chase through the garden that ended when, with mere seconds to spare, the Doctor slammed the doors of the TARDIS closed. There was a storm of dull thuds, and some rather uncouth words, as the shovel-wielding woman banged on the doors with her gardening weapon on choice. The Doctor paid the threats and curses no mind and settled at the control panel. Those not responsible for flying the TARDIS lingered closer to the doors and listened in horrified wonder as the woman outside continued her barrage. Bob was particularly enthralled by the woman's creativity with four-letter words, and filed some of the best away for later use.

"We didn't find anything about her mouth in our research," Larry said.

As the TARDIS began to dematerialize from 1942, the woman, startled both by the noise and by the increasing transparency of the police box, backpedaled. She tripped over her own feet and landed on her bottom, bruising her tailbone. Not that she noticed. She was too busy staring at the miraculous departure of the group of home invaders (and possible German spies) she'd cornered.

"And don't you dare come back!" the woman shouted once the TARDIS vanished completely.

Now safe in the time vortex, the TARDIS crew drifted away from the doors and toward the control panel, where the Doctor was still making adjustments and fiddling with the console. He finished playing with the TARDIS' settings and, upon turning from the console, found himself surrounded.

"This isn't an intervention, is it? Because I did stop experimenting with the custard, just like I promised," the Time Lord said.

"No, it's not an intervention. There are some things we've got to talk about, that's all. Oh, and you are so lying about the custard. Rory and I know it," Amy said.

"Fine, I've been experimenting with the custard _less_. And what have we got to talk about?" the Doctor asked.

"I think we've each got our issues, Doctor, and this is mine: I can't go home. My wife is…gone…I'm sure someone's reported me missing as well, and my house is destroyed," George said. "There's no way I can explain what happened without spending the rest of my life in prison or a madhouse."

Whatever bones to pick or grievances to air anyone else had, they decided George's problem was far more pressing. There was also instant and unspoken consensus that George deserved some privacy as he sorted out matters including a wife who had been murdered by alien angels from the dawn of time. Everyone not George or the Doctor wandered off a distance.

"I'm sorry, George," the Doctor said. "I can't fix any of that, but there are options. Have you ever wanted to live on another planet? Or in another time period?"

"Yes, when I was seven and my favorite program was _Star Trek_. I can't leave Earth. I don't want to live on some planet where the sky is green and everyone looks at me like I'm some sort of pink weasel or something horrible like that."

"It's mostly Sontarans."

"What's mostly Sontarans?"

"That think humans look like pink weasels."

George moaned. "That isn't the point! I like Earth, I like 2012, and I like Britain. I don't want to live on Mars, I don't want to live in the year 3000, and I don't want to move to Mexico!"

"In other words, you don't want to change anything at all. Which isn't going to work! Something's got to change, or you're going to be asked to answer impossible questions," the Doctor said.

"I _know_, Doctor. But I was happy. I was married, I had a house, a job I liked. Now all that's gone. I can't just move on. I'm not like Molly's sister. That woman, last I heard, had a passport in three different names and… Oh Christ, I think I've got to see Molly's sister."

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather live on Io in 2904?"

"Not entirely, but we should try this first. I suppose I've got to tell her what happened to Molly, anyway. I've got a duty, haven't I?"

The Doctor clapped George on the back. "Alright, give me an address and I'll take you."

"I will, but I'd rather wait until you sorted everyone else out first. I'm in no hurry."

The Doctor looked at the rest of his companions, who were spread out around the control room and trying to look inconspicuous. Bob and Eleanor's mother would be returning within a day or two, and would definitely want to have her children there when she arrived. Larry and Sally, asides from having their full-time lives, had appointed themselves caretakers of Wester Drumlins, and the sooner they were returned, the better. And Amy and Rory…they hadn't said it yet, but the Doctor was sure they'd like a break from traveling.

"Sit tight, George," the Doctor said. The Time Lord then set off to make his rounds.

Bob and Eleanor were the first pair the Doctor reached. Before he even asked, Eleanor said, "We need to go home."

"Not that it hasn't been brilliant, because it has been. But I think I want to live to be thirteen, and either aliens or my mum will kill me if I'm not where I'm supposed to be," Bob said.

"Never mind Mum, I'll kill you!" Eleanor said. "Even if that means I've got to take care of your bitey hamster."

"Reggie! You don't think he's forgotten me, do you?"

The Doctor shook his head. "Doubt it. Hamsters have very long memories. Almost as good as elephants."

"How would you know?" Bob asked.

"I speak hamster."

"No way."

"Yes way! I also speak horse, cat, baby, and I'm trying to learn bat but it's very difficult."

"Bollocks."

"Time Lord's honor."

After convincing Bob and Eleanor that a Time Lord's honor was not something to be doubted, the Doctor approached Sally and Larry.

"I like traveling in a time machine much more than without one," Sally said.

"Yeah, horrible, isn't it? That's why the TARDIS isn't a convertible," the Doctor said.

"Your ship, it's different than when we last saw it. Just like you're different."

"New Doctor, new tastes."

"But at least you're still good at saving us," Larry said.

"Some things never change."

The Doctor promised to return Sally and Larry to their correct spot in space and time, and then, with reluctance, dragged his feet over to where Rory and Amy were sitting on the stairs.

"You'd like a holiday, wouldn't you?" the Doctor asked right off.

"Yes. But a short one! A couple of weeks, maybe. Just long enough to convince our parents we haven't died or left them forever," Amy said.

"And long enough to stop having nightmares about all this," Rory added.

"That might be more than weeks," the Doctor pointed out.

Rory sighed. "Honestly, I won't mind the nightmares so much. I'm just glad we're alive."

Amy let out a shaky laugh. "When we do see you again, Doctor, I think we should stay away from anymore angels. Next time they will kill us!"

"I'll put that in my day planner, every day. 'Avoid weeping angels.' Sounds good."

The Doctor clambered up the stairs and, on the off chance his clopping feet hadn't attracted everyone's attention, he clapped his hands. Once all eyes were on him, the Doctor said, "Before we all say our good-byes and return to our hamsters or parents or nice little shops, I did promise fish and chips. But since I haven't got any actual cash, Rory is going to pay. Sorry, just joking. Stop giving me that look or you're not getting anything."

* * *

One perfect lunch of fish and chips later, the Doctor and his friends parted ways. He landed the TARDIS in front of Bob and Eleanor's house. As the Time Lord and Bob exchanged hugs, the Doctor reached into his pocket and, after making sure Eleanor wasn't watching closely, passed an object to Bob.

"Don't point it at dolphins; it offends them," the Doctor whispered. "And don't, under threat of eternal grounding, tell anyone what it is or where you got it."

Bob tucked the sonic screwdriver into the pocket of his jeans and then drew his shirt down to completely hide it. "I won't, I promise. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Wait! One more thing! Don't use it on windows unless you want your mum to murder you."

Bob nodded. He then turned and made his way towards the door, where Eleanor was waiting for him.

With one last wave, the Doctor returned to the TARDIS. He still had three more stops to make, and he hoped his hearts could take it.

Sally and Larry were up next. The Doctor, as much as he didn't want to so much as think about Wester Drumlins for the rest of his life, had no choice but to drop them off at the front gate of the house. They'd driven their car to the angel-haunted building, and they preferred to return home the same way. Also, somebody needed to make sure all the doors were locked, so no curious trespassers discovered the possibly apocalyptic surprise in the cellar.

"We'll miss you, Doctor," Sally said.

"You should come and visit us again," Larry added.

The Doctor grinned. "I'll be there for the wedding."

Sally and Larry exchanged open-mouthed stares.

"How—"

The Doctor winked and drew the TARDIS' doors closed.

Saying goodbye to the Ponds, even temporarily, was agony. Judging by the shiny wetness in their eyes and the constant nose-rubbing from Rory, they felt the same about leaving the Doctor.

"Three weeks. No, two weeks. Just two weeks," Amy said. "Or thirteen days. We can get a lot of therapy in thirteen days."

"Alright, thirteen days it is then. That'll give me plenty of time to clean your room and—"

"No, no! Please, uh, stay out of our room," Rory interjected.

"Are you sure you don't want new sheets at least? I found this fantastic set with walruses on them."

"Oh my God, can you imagine trying to do…anything…with a flock of walruses staring at you? No thank you," Amy said. Rory was too busy hiding his shame to add anything more to the conversation.

"See you in thirteen days. You don't mind if I show up at midnight on that thirteenth day, do you? Didn't think so," the Doctor said before Amy or Rory could beg for a final decent night's sleep.

Delivering George into the capable, though likely criminal, hands of Molly's sister was the last job the Doctor had. And he was so good at it he nearly got killed.

The TARDIS materialized in a tiny flat with a ceiling so low the beacon atop the box touched it. The Doctor stepped out, and, before he could marvel at how incredible he'd been at piloting of late, he found himself pinned to the wall and threatened with a cricket bat.

"I used to have one of those," the Doctor said brightly, pointing at the bat.

"You're going to have a cracked skull in exactly five seconds if you don't tell me who you are, what you are, how you found me, and what David Cameron sent you here to do," the woman holding the bat growled.

"That's a lot to tell in five seconds. Also, Dave and I? Not friends."

"Melissa, Christ, you've got to stop doing that to people," George cried, emerging from the TARDIS.

Molly's infamous anarchist sister, finally given a name, spun around and raised the bat in a way that was decidedly hostile. George stepped back into the TARDIS and prepared to slam the door (and abandon the Doctor to his head-cracking fate) if Melissa came any closer.

"George? There is no way you're working for the government," Melissa said, lowering the bat slightly. "So what are you doing here, and who's the genetic experiment?"

"Oi! I am not a genetic experiment! I'm an alien!" the Doctor protested.

"That was my second guess," Melissa said.

George reluctantly crept out of the TARDIS. "I've got a lot to tell you, and most of it's awful. I don't think even you can believe all of it, but I'm sure you'll believe more than most people."

Melissa dropped the bat to her side. "I knew this day was coming. When's the invasion?"

"Not today! We already stopped it," the Doctor said.

"So you're a good alien?" Melissa asked.

"He's a fantastic alien. He saved my life, and the world, too, I suppose," George said.

"And nobody thought to call me? How long have I been waiting for this?" Melissa demanded.

"All your adult life. But it's not fun, like you think it is. It's horrible, and terrifying, and people die," George said.

"Who died?"

George and the Doctor looked away.

"_Who died_?" Melissa repeated.

No answer was answer enough. Melissa lost her grip on the cricket bat and fell to her knees. George was beside her in a moment and hugged the sobbing woman to his chest.

The Doctor stood there, useless and awkward as a deformed third leg. George, looking up from Melissa for one moment, motioned with his hand for the Doctor to leave. The Time Lord nodded and silently departed.

All alone again, the Doctor set the TARDIS adrift in the infinity of the time vortex. He sat down with his back to the central console, and felt the gentle vibration of the TARDIS seep into him, soothing him like a childhood lullaby.

"Hello, Sexy. How are we going to occupy ourselves for the next twelve days, twenty-two hours, and eighteen minutes?"

* * *

THE END

In the words of The Grateful Dead, what a long, strange trip it's been. Thanks eternally to all those who've read, favorited, and reviewed over these last two years. I couldn't have completed this behemoth without the encouragement I received.


End file.
